


And The Stars Shone Brightly

by YourLoyalBlogger



Series: The Stars Series [2]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Family, Friendship, Gen, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Kitty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 79
Words: 96,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourLoyalBlogger/pseuds/YourLoyalBlogger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Reichenbach Falls, Sherlock struggles to regain what he had lost and take out the one man left in Moriarty's web. Sebastian Moran.</p>
<p>Sequel to Never To See The Stars Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome Back

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the sequel!
> 
> I apologise first for this short chapter, but I like them to end certain ways. On Moffat Hooks...which is a term I just made up. Actually I made it up halfway through the other story...
> 
> Anyway so we have this and then the next one should hopefully be a bit longer.
> 
> So..um..enjoy!
> 
> EDITED: Fixed spelling mistakes.

He gently lifted his brother's body to rest against his own, watching as his men began to comb the area for Sebastian Moran, who had conveniently disappeared the moment the two men had fallen. A helicopter was to be sent to pick up himself and the bodies, first to a local hospital and then back home. Mycroft knew that when he returned to London he would have to make the heartbreaking decision on whether or not to tell Sherlock's friends the truth. Molly and Irene would find out anyway, but how could he tell those who believed his brother to have died over a year ago, that he had been alive and now..now he had..he'd. He didn't want to say it. He couldn't say it.

He kept his eyes on the still corpse of James Moriarty, he lay silently on his chest, his face out of view, to the side. This was the man who had stolen his brother's life, Mycroft would have preferred to end it himself. Instead he probably died quickly, worse still, perhaps painlessly. He was hopeful that it was how Sherlock had left the world, but he had wished for a far painful end for Moriarty.  _But you never get what you truly want sometimes do you?_  And so, he thought, ends the life of the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen and the life..the life of my beloved if somewhat irritating little brother.

Unable to hold back the tears that threatened to return, Mycroft buried his head in the damp curls that rested against his chest. And it was only then did he realise something that in his grief he had failed to notice. The body against his chest was shivering. At first he attributed it to his own freezing body but this was definitely not coming from him. Could he be..? Mycroft desperately grabbed the wrist of his little brother, searching for a pulse, the cold skin proving it a difficult task.

"Sherlock?"  _Oh please, give me this._

And then his brother shuddered into life.

* * *

Mycroft looked down at his sibling's face in shock, his brother's had at first appeared peaceful, but now it was one of pain. His eyelids fluttered as Sherlock attempted to regain consciousness. But instead he hovered somewhere in between. Mycroft shouted at the top of his voice for blankets, but there weren't any. So he removed his own coat and jacket, ignoring the sudden chill that pieced his skin, and wrapped them around his brother's shivering form.  _Sherlock, thank goodness, you stupid bloody idiot, you scared the hell out of me._ He kept him close, rubbing his arms, shoulders, hands and face, trying to bring back some colour into his brother.

Sherlock's eyes continued to flutter, occasionally Mycroft would spot a sliver of brilliant blue or green. He placed one hand over the wound on the back of his head, the cold had mercifully slowed the bleeding. It was hopefully not serious but definitely the reason his brother was struggling to break through the fog and wake up. And where was that bloody helicopter?

* * *

As he wondered, he could have sworn he heard movement beside him, but the only thing beside him was...Oh. Of course, again, he had let his emotions get the better of him and not checked the body that lay in the snow beside them. Warmth had perhaps caused Sherlock to stir, Mycroft didn't give a damn about Moriarty. He pulled out the gun that had settled in the snow and wrapped his other arm around Sherlock's shoulder, pulling him into a protective hug.

Moriarty turned his head, he'd been awake for sometime, conserving his strength. Sherlock had survived. Again! Why couldn't the man just die? Was that so much to ask? They'd both had survival plans and put them into action, but the aim was for the other to perish. Except neither had! Jim's hands closed over a jagged rock and he picked it up, lifted his body off the ground, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He made one last ditch effort and threw the rock at Mycroft and Sherlock. And missed.

Mycroft didn't even blink. He simply fired twice. Once in the chest, once in the head for good measure. He wasn't taking any chances this time. Moriarty fell, a look of surprise and shock spreading across his face as he fell, arm's outstretched. From Mycroft's chest came a strangled groan, but his brother still floated in between the realms of consciousness. Mycroft dropped the gun, gasping for breath. He was dead. He was dead, Jim Moriarty would never torment another man.

He felt relief sweep through him and he rested his chin on top of his brother's head and held him close.

* * *

It was two minutes until the helicopter was due to land when all hell broke loose. Bullets began to pepper the area, the shooter caring little on whether or not he hit his mark. Mycroft grabbed his brother and painfully he lifted him, half dragging him to a safer place. His men returned the fire, two succumbing to the hot lead.

And then the clearing went silent. The shooter, most likely Moran had either run out of bullets or simply ran away. He ordered those remaining to go after him and take him down and then returned to check on his brother. As he watched a pair of paramedics with stretchers race towards him, he turned his attention to the sudden pain he was feeling in his side. Placing his hand against the throbbing area, he pressed and gasped out, falling to his knees. Removing his hand he stared in shock at the blood that was dripping through his fingers.

 

He'd been shot.

 


	2. Worst Patient Ever

People who thought Sherlock was a terrible patient had usually never met his older brother. Where Sherlock would deliberately be as irritating as possible, Mycroft would attempt to order everyone around, especially the doctors. He would be arrogant and rude, anything that would get him out of hospital and back home. There was a reason he had his own private physician and infirmary. The only doctor he really trusted was...well, it was John Watson.

Obviously.

So the first thing he did upon waking up in a small Swiss hospital, was to complain and demand to see his brother. Who turned out to be right beside him, separated by a green curtain. The nurse kindly removed it once Mycroft had ordered her to do so. Sherlock was still pale but his lips were no longer that horrible blue, but his bruises stood out against the light skin. His head was tightly bandaged, a spot of red on his brow, his left hand rested on his chest. It seemed to be in a splint of some kind. His leg was elevated. Tubes and wires covered his sibling, as did blankets, trying to keep his body as warm as possible.

"How is he? What are his injuries?"

Mycroft inquired, the sound of power in his voice, but with a hint of desperation was clearly present. The nurse leaned over to glance at his medical report. "Leg broken in two places, left wrist is sprained, two fingers broken. Two ribs also broken, the rest bruised. Numerous facial bruises, broken nose. Head wound not serious." Mycroft released a sigh of relief. His brother, although in quite a bad way, was going to be ok.

"Has he regained conciousness yet?" The nurse nodded.

"Briefly, you were in surgery I believe. He will be alright. You have said you wish to leave for London as soon as possible? Your doctors have decided to keep you for a few days, just to be sure. Plus, your brother is not yet ready to be moved." Mycroft could have groaned. Wonderful, they get to spend more time in this hell hole. He attempted to sit up, however this proved to be a very bad idea. His body disagreed with his desire to move and so he lay back down on his side while the nurse decided to fetch a cup of water for him. He hated this, this feeling of helplessness, having to rely on others.

The nurse placed the plastic cup in front of his lips and he gulped down the contents greedily, the nurse kindly wiping any of the excess water that trickled down his chin. "Can I get you anything else sir?" What else? He wasn't hungry, he had enough blankets. Oh!

"A phone"

"A..phone sir?"

"Did you misunderstand me? I said a phone!"

"..I will see what I can do" The nurse rolled her eyes at the childish manner in which her patient was behaving. At least her other patient was quiet and obliging, but then he was currently asleep. She left the arrogant one alone with his sibling and went in search of a phone.

* * *

"Sherlock? Are you awake?"

A groan. Well, that was sort of a response. Perhaps another try would wake him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock it's time to wake up" Another groan and what sounded like ' _five more minutes_ '. Letting out a soft chuckle, Mycroft tried one more time. This time with more force and a great deal louder.

"Sherlock Holmes! Wake up!" His eyelids flickered and then shot open, he looked around confused.

"Myc? Myc, 's th't you?" Apparently he was on some strong painkillers, if the slurring was anything to go by.

"Yes brother, it is me. How do you feel?" Sherlock's eyes closed briefly and then re-opened, remaining at half mast.

"T'red. Wh're are we?"

"A hospital, clearly"

"Head h'rts"

"It would considering you fell down a waterfall"

"D'dn't fall"

His voice was nothing more than a whisper. Mycroft felt his inital desire for an answer ebb. He could wait until his sibling was more coherent. Still, there was something he needed his brother to know. Even if he wasn't coherent enough to understand it. Mycroft felt he couldn't keep it in any longer.

"You scared me. Again Sherlock. I fear my heart can not take much more of this."

Sherlock painfully turned his head, his eyes full of confusion, his drugged state made it difficult for him to keep them open, or even lift his head.

"I sc'red you?"

"You fell, Sherlock. Again..you fell again. Off of a waterfall this time. I..thought you were dead."

"D'dn't die"

"I know that! But your body...you were so cold Sherlock, and there was so much blood. I thought I'd finally lost you. I promised to protect you and look what good that did"

"..You thought I w's dead?"

"Yes" He whispered.

"'m sorry Myc"

Mycroft gave him a small smile. "It's alright Sherlock. Go back to sleep. We'll continue talking when you are more yourself"

"'m n'ver myself" His eyes closed and he slipped back off to sleep.

"You will be one day Sherlock, you will be"

* * *

The nurse returned shortly after with a phone kindly provided by the mayor of this little town. Power and money have their uses, mused Mycroft. However he was only permitted to use said phone for only fifteen minutes, and then he was supposed to rest. Not bloody likely. He thanked the nurse for the phone and dismissed her, his air of arrogance blowing her from the room. Now, he should probably call Molly and Irene first. He would receive an earful if he did not.

He quickly dialled the number for his house, assuming they would be there. He was correct, as always. It did not take long for the call to be answered.

"Hello?"

"Miss Hooper?"

"Mycroft! Oh my god, where are you? Is everything ok? Is Sherlock ok? Oh my god!"

"Miss Hooper...Miss Hooper, calm down please. Look, I can't understand you when you speak so fast. Yes, that's better."

"Where are you? We came back yesterday and the place was deserted."

"Sherlock decided to run off and confront Moriarty himself. It seems he was receiving threatening messages from him for some time. And decided we didn't need to know."

"The idiot! Is he...is he ok?" Mycroft looked up at his sleeping little brother.

"Yes, brusied, broken and battered, but he'll live. The idiot fell from a waterfall, how he survived I do not know. I am sure it will be quite the tale."

"And...Moriarty?"

"Dead" He heard murmured whisperings, no doubt Molly was conveying their conversation to Irene Adler.

"How?"

"I shot him in the head." There was silence and then sighs of relief.

"That's good to hear. No coming back this time."

"No. That's the end of James Moriarty"

Silence returned.

"You keep receiving texts from John. He's concerned about Normund?"

"Ah. Moriarty must have sent him messages too. Never mind, I shall contact him myself and put things right."

"You should tell him. Tell John, Jim's dead. He needs to know"

"I will. Do not worry."

"Good. Well, I better get off and let you get on with that. We hope to see you both back home soon."

"Goodbye Molly Hooper"

"See you soon Mr Holmes"

* * *

He ended the call and just in time. That insufferable woman had returned and swiftly removed the phone from his hands. "Time to rest Mr Holmes." Mycroft ignored her but rested his head on the pillow, watching his brother's chest rise and fall. Bloody idiot. He had a lot of explaining to do when he was better. Like how on earth he had survived. Why did he feel it was alright to leave for anoher country without back-up? Why hadn't he trusted his own brother?

Why...why..?

Mycroft's eyes slid shut and he fell blissfully into the arms of Morpheus.


	3. He's Dead John

Mycroft awoke sometime in the early afternoon, the wound on his side felt marginally better, no doubt to whatever painkillers they were giving him. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and stared at the body in the other hospital bed. Sherlock was also on his side, his eyes half open, watching his brother. Was he completely awake? Or was he only half asleep? Whatever the case may be, he still wasn't in any condition for Mycroft to inquire about his survival. Perhaps on the plane ride home, which better be bloody soon.

"Sherlock?"

"Myc"

"How do you feel now?"

"Head st'll hurts. Everything's...f'ggy" Mycroft sighed.

"That's the drugs Sherlock"

"G've up dr'gs"

"Not those ones, medicinal ones. Give it time. Do you need anything?"

It seemed to take him forever before he made a decision. "W'ter"

Mycroft nodded and yelled for the nurse. There was a call button, but Mycroft was not getting up just to push that when she could hear him perfectly well. When she appeared at the door, Mycroft wasted no time in giving her further orders. Sherlock needed water and possibly food and he desired the phone again. The nurse sighed, nodded and left the room. Mycroft heaved himself up into a sitting position, wincing and swung his legs over the bed. There was a chair next to Sherlock's bed so Mycroft made his way to it, stumbling and trying not to cry out as pain radiated up his side. He shouldn't be up, but he didn't want to be stuck in bed a minute longer.

Sherlock continued to watch him, his eyes dazed and slightly out of focus. After Mycroft sat down, he looked up into his brother's face.

"Are you angry at me?"

"A little" Sherlock's face fell.

"'m sorry"

"Stop apologising."

"But, I m'de you angry..." The gears tried to click into motion but were halted by the drugs. Mycroft patted his hand.

"Yes but you made me happy by not dying"

"..I'll remember th't next time"

"There better not be a next time Sherlock"

* * *

Mycroft was immediatly reprimanded when the nurse returned. He ignored her, took the water, the food and the phone and ordered her to leave. She had a mind to call the orderlies and force him back to bed, but she could see he wasn't up and about just to be difficult, though she wouldn't put that past him, but to care for his little brother. His heart was in the right place, even if he was an arrogant bastard. She left the two brothers alone. Mycroft lifted his sibling's head and urged him to take small sips. Sherlock gasped as the cold liquid slipped down his throat, he hadn't realised how dry it had felt until that moment.

"Do you feel up to eating something? I have ...unidentifiable soup" Sherlock gave him a slight smile and nodded and Mycroft again raised his head and placed the end of the spoon between his lips. He continued until half the bowl was gone, by then Sherlock had had enough. Mycroft placed the half empty bowl to the side and gently placed his brother's head back onto the soft white pillows.

"I have to make another phone call. Get some rest."

"C'll?"

"Yes Sherlock. I left in a hurry, so a lot of people wish to know where I am."

"Who are you c'lling?"

"...That's not important. Go to sleep" Sherlock turned on his side, his innocent eyes staring into Mycroft's concerned ones.

"No. Who?" The elder Holmes brother found himself sighing for what seemed like the hundredth time.

"John" Sherlock's blue eyes widened, as Mycroft knew they would.

"C'n I t'lk to him?"

"No, Sherlock. You know this. It is still not safe"

"But..." His eyesbrows furrowed in thought. "J'm is dead."

"Yes, but Moran is not. Nor are several other members. Once they are done away with, then you may speak to John"

"But I m'ss John..."

"I know Sherlock. But he want's to know about Normund and I need to inform him about Moriarty's death. So I must phone him with a convincing lie."

".. He l'kes N'rmound more than me"

"Now that is just ridiculous. Go to sleep!"

"Don't w'nt to"

"Then stay silent."

* * *

John jumped when the phone rang directly into his ear several times, having fallen asleep right next to it. He wasted no time in answering it, it could be anybody, it could even be important. Who was it? Lestrade? Mycroft? Normund?  _Please be one of the latter two. Please be ok Normund. Please, please, please._

"Hello?"

"John"

"Mycroft?"

"Indeed"

"Where the bloody hell have you been? I've been trying to get a hold of you for ages!"

"Yes I know. Forgive me, I had more pressing matters"

"More pressing-...look did you find Normund?" _More pressing matters, my arse._

"Normund and Moriarty"

"Is he ok?"  _Please be ok mate. I'm so sorry._

"He is injured, but he'll live. The same can not be said for James Moriarty"

"...He's dead?"  _Oh God._

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"I shot him myself. I am very sure" If John had been standing, he would have had to sit down at this point.

"Oh God. Oh God, he's dead. He's finally gone." He felt like laughing and crying. And so did both.

"Yes.."

"Wait.. you shot him?"

"He was about to attack, I had no choice"

"Wow. That's great. Yes it was self defence I'm sure but I don't bloody care. He's dead. Wow" He kept laughing, feeling speechless, warmth, pleasure and relief filled him. Jim was gone. He would never harm another living thing.

"I thought I should let you know. Normund is returning home to his family to recover. I will be bringing the body of Moriarty back with me once the doctor has cleared us both" There was no point hiding his injury, John would find out the minute he was brought in to see the criminal's corpse.

"Doctor? Cleared you both? Are you alright Mycroft?"

"Concerned for me?"

"...Maybe a little. But just a tiny, tiny amount."

"I was shot"

"Shit"

"That's what I thought too. It's not serious however, just irritating. I should be able to leave this dreadful place in a day or so."

"Who shot you?"

"One of Moriarty's men."

"Did you get him?"

"Unfortunatly not. I must go now, the nurse is giving me threatening looks and gestures. See you soon, John Watson"

"Bye Mycroft.."

* * *

The phone was once again snatched from his hands and Nurse Dragon, as Mycroft dubbed her in his head and he had never bothered to learn her real name, ordered him back to bed. He declined initially, but relented when she mentioned the orderlies. Sherlock was still awake, he was panting, sweat pooled on his brow and bandages. A familiar feeling settled in Mycroft's chest. Worry. Nurse Dragon checked his temperature, frowning slightly. Dear brother, if you get sick and delay us I will not forgive you. The nurse placed a cold compress onto his forehead and held it in place.

"Has he a fever?"

"Just a mild one. He should be better in the morning. As for leaving, you must clear that with your doctors first."

"We shall see"

"You will or you will stay here"

"Foolish delusions"

Sherlock's feverish moans interrupted her retort. She sighed and continued cooling his brow.

"Stupid boy" Mycroft whispered. Always have to take things one step further.

* * *

John rested his head in his hands, tears dripping down his face, but he was smiling. Happy tears. Jim was dead. Gone. Never to return. Mycroft had killed him, whether it was in self defence or an act of revenge, John didn't fucking care. He felt as if a weight had been lifted off his chest. Life was safe again. He didn't have to worry anymore. Oh this was brilliant. He would have to tell Lestrade and Mrs Hudson even. And Mary. He'd been so concerned that Moriarty might make an attempt to hurt his Mary. Instead he'd taken an innocent friend. Who he hoped, would one day forgive him.

And Sherlock. He had to tell him too.


	4. Homecoming

"So, how have you been Sherlock? I know, I know, stupid question. I've been great. Mary's great, Mrs Hudson's great. Everyone is great. Actually Lestrade got married, he's off on a cruise right now with his new wife. Lucky bastard. But I didn't come here to make small talk. Because we both know how much you hate it, hated it. I came here because Mycroft dropped a bombshell on me yesterday. Moriarty's dead, Sherlock. I couldn't believe it. Frankly I won't until I see his body for myself. Which will probably be tomorrow. But Mycroft says he shot him. Your brother killed Moriarty. I feel like I can breath easier now. I feel safer. That...sodding bastard will never hurt another living thing. I just thought you should be told. You deserved to know. More than anyone else."

"There's something else. I've been thinking about it for a long time. I wish I could get your approval. Knowing you, you'd disagree, complain, throw insults. But I'm telling you anyway, I want to marry Mary. Not yet though, but soon, in a few months I plan to propose. I love her, she loves me, what more incentive do I need? I'm just not ready to pop the question yet. Haven't even found the right ring. God, I wish you were here to give me some hilarious, bad advice. And to be my best man. Because you were. The best man, the best I ever knew. It should be you that stands beside me, instead it will be Lestrade. And he's a great mate but, he's not my best mate. You are. Were. I don't care. But unfortunately you will only be there in spirit. Or not at all, just to spite me."

"I should go, looks like it's going to rain and unlike your brother I don't have an umbrella permanently attached to me. I promise to visit you again soon. Later Sherlock."

* * *

Sherlock was none to pleased to have to be pushed around the hospital and airport in a wheelchair. Though he wasn't vocal about it he made his displeasure known in other ways. Mainly by ignoring Mycroft. Were he himself, he would have come up with far more inventive ways, however he was not himself and also not very well. But that didn't mean he couldn't rebel in his own private way. He knew how much Mycroft wanted to yell at him, lecture him and pepper him with questions. His brother could wait. Sherlock's head ached, scratch that, his whole body did. So he was in no mood to listen to Mycroft prattle on about the dangers of leaving home without asking and falling off of waterfalls.

However, now that they were on a plane and heading home, Mycroft was clearly in no mood for his little brother's games anymore. While his sibling reclined his chair as far back as it would go, Mycroft wasted no time in asking questions.

"So how did you survive?" Sherlock look up and sighed. He was just about to take a nap. Couldn't he wait until they landed to ask him everything?

"Must we do this now?"

"I can't wait any longer."

"It's quite simple. There's a small bridge part way down. I made sure to direct the fight so that should I fall, I would be able to grab it during my descent. Unfortunately Moriarty had the same idea."

"But we found you.. broken on the ground Sherlock"

"Yes, I was getting to that. We climbed onto the bridge and resumed our fight, making our way off it and onto a ledge. We could hear yelling coming from above and deduced it was the back up of the other. So we, or at least I, made my way down towards the bottom of the falls. However, Jim had other plans. I don't remember much, but something hard hit me from behind, I managed to sweep his feet out from beneath him before I blacked out. Next thing I knew I was in hospital."

Mycroft allowed the information to settle in his mind. It was absurdly simple. After all it had taken him and his men forty minutes to reach the bottom. Plenty of time for the two enemies to fight their way down. Still, his brother was incredibly lucky. There were so many worse outcomes that made Mycroft shiver. "You are fortunate that you did not hit the rocks at the bottom of the falls. You are very lucky Sherlock. Very lucky indeed." His sibling nodded, looking away. Mycroft sighed.

"You should have told me."

"Told you what?"

"Don't play stupid. You know what."

"I couldn't. He threatened everyone."

"I could have helped."

"I didn't want to take any chances this time. Not after everything I've had to give up."

"It's precisely what you had to give up, that made it a stupid idea to leave without telling me in the first place!"

"Look, I'm sorry. Ok? What more can I say? That I regret it? No. I don't. I'm sure you don't regret shooting him either." Sherlock raised his head as he spoke, waving his hand about to make a point. He winced as he felt the sharp throbbing pain in his forehead return and laid his head back down. The painkillers must be wearing off again. Mycroft did not miss the look of pain that crossed his little brother's face but there was little he could do.

"Just. Don't do it again. Or at least wait a great deal of time before you do so. And tell me. Despite what you may think of me sometimes, I have always had your best interests at heart."

"I know Myc. I know"

"Good. Do you need anything?"

"Silence. I'm tired." Mycroft smirked and stood, patting his brother on the shoulder as he went past.

"I'm not surprised. I'm going to get some tea. Call me if you need me" He received a mumbled grunt in reply and couldn't help but chuckle. Annoyed, injured Sherlock was grumpy. And grumpy Sherlock was amazing close to the old Sherlock. Still, he had a long way to go. Especially with Moran now on the loose.

* * *

By the time they arrived in London, it was dark. Sherlock was wrapped up in blankets and forced into his wheelchair, a pair of crutches resting on his lap. A car was waiting outside, ready to take them back home. Back to London, back to Molly and Irene. Back to a normal, boring life, stuck in Mycroft's "humble abode". But Moran was still out there. So perhaps there was still some adventure to be had. Though if he were truly honest with himself, it wasn't an adventure Sherlock craved. It was friendship. It was a certain person at his side, joking with him, laughing, warning, praising. A man who made him feel wanted, cared about, loved. Not alone.

But he was alone.

There was a sharp poke in his side, Mycroft was giving him a concerned look. They'd arrived in no time at all. Time to face the music, he thought. Molly and Irene were no doubt going to give him a stern lecture and assault him with hugs and kisses. How awful. Sherlock was helped out of the car and into the wheelchair again. He hated being so helpless. But he also quite liked being waited on by hand and foot. He was a walking mass of contradictions sometimes. Mycroft followed him slowly, leaning heavily on his umbrella which was currently being used as a cane by the government official.

And as Sherlock had predicted, Molly ran up to them both and wrapped her arms around Sherlock's thin shoulder's. He could barely breathe. It didn't help that her chest was pratically in his face.

"Oh I was so worried! Are you ok? You look so pale! Well, paler than normal. Oh, look at your face. Renie, doesn't he look awful?" _Oh well, I feel much better now thank you Molly._  He wished she would let go of his face, yes it was awful to look it, it also felt awful and she wasn't helping. Irene gave him a rather saucy smile and kisses his unmarred cheek.

"Yes he does. Positively hideous" She purred into his ear, a playful look on her face to tell him she was only joking. She adored his features. Molly's eyes widened and she ran back into Sherlock's room, which they had paused in front of, instead of going inside, which confused the detective to no end. She returned with a small black ball of fluff. Milton. Molly placed the little kitten into Sherlock's lap, removing the crutches and opening the door to allow both brothers entrance. Milton purred and curled into a ball.

Oh God.

There was a large banner in front of the bed. **'Get Well Soon Sherlock'**. Why? Just why? And there were flowers and soft toys. Oh this had to be Molly's idea but Irene would have played along, just to annoy him. Mycroft grinned evilly as he picked up one of the doctor bears and showed it to Sherlock. He grunted at it and made his sibling push the chair to the couch so he could get off the wretched thing.

"What do you think?" Asked Molly. She looked so excited and hopeful.

"It's um..it's. Thanks. It's..something. Isn't it Mycroft?"

"Oh absolutely. It is something alright"

"Oh I'm so glad you like it!"

* * *

The night deteriorated from there. While Mycroft regaled his tale, Sherlock curled on the couch with Milton, ignoring the occasional glares he recieved from the two women. By the time Mycroft had finishd, Sherlock was fast asleep. Irene pulled a blanket over his thin, sleeping body and stared at him with a look of concern.

"We came close to loosing him didn't we?"

"Very close. I thought..I actually thought we had when we found him. He was so white, his lips were blue and there was so much blood. I thought I'd lost him." Molly's eyes filled with tears at the realisation that they'd nearly lost the detective again. Irene sighed and sat back down next to Molly, hugging her tightly. Mycroft looked over at the man who had caused them so much pain, worry and heartbreak. Hopefully Moran and the last several members of Moriarty's web were found soon. So Sherlock could feel safe again and return home to a "normal" life.

That wasn't too much to ask for was it?


	5. Morgue Conversations

John felt nervous as he limped through the doors and down the corridors of St Barts, because he was on his way to see the body of Jim Moriarty. He had to make sure, he wanted to see for himself, that the mad man was dead. He didn't trust Mycroft, even though he was sure the man would know Moriarty when he saw him. He simply wanted to see the corpse with his own eyes, so he could rest easier. So he didn't have those  _what if's_  running through his head. What if it wasn't him? What if it was an impostor? What if he was still alive? That's why he was on his way to the morgue at three a.m in the morning.

* * *

John could see Mycroft through the small, square morgue windows as he paused at the door, his hand shaking as he pressed it against the cool, white doors. The elder Holmes brother, the only Holmes brother, was standing by a sheet covered body, leaning heavily on his umbrella. His lips were thin, there were bags under his eyes and his free arm rested against his side, as if protecting it from harm. He nodded as John quietly made his way into the almost empty room. John's eyes continued scanning Mycroft, noticing the slightly amused look he received in return.

"In the side right? Still hurt?" Mycroft smiled.

"I'm impressed. But I shouldn't be, you are after all a competent doctor. Yes, in my side. And yes, it still does hurt."

"Was it worth it?"

"Absolutely." He didn't miss a beat.

Mycroft turned his attention to the body laying in front of him. He nodded at Molly, John felt terrible that he hadn't noticed her when he'd first arrived, who gently pulled the white sheet back, revealing the torso and head of Jim Moriarty. John took a sharp intake of breath that released itself as a nervous laugh. It was him. It was really him. Moriarty really was dead. A surge of relief spread through him, so strong he nearly fell to his knees. It was over. This horrible game that Jim had been playing with them for what seemed like forever. It was finished.

"Satisfied?"

"You shot him twice."

"Once to kill him, once to be sure." John raised his eyebrow as he examined the body himself.

"The first shot wouldn't have killed him immediatly."

"Maybe I wanted him to suffer a bit first? Short lived however. Still, a quick death wasn't what he deserved."

John again felt surprised. He could easily sense and feel the, barely repressed, anger and malice that was radiating from Mycroft at this very moment. It struck then, that no matter how much he distrusted, and on occasion hated, this man, he had lost his only family. He'd lost his little brother to the very man lying beside them. He felt the same pain and anger that John himself felt. It was worse for Mycroft because he had given Moriarty his ammunition in the first place. It made perfect sense for Mycroft to want revenge and to take it at the first chance he could. John knew he would have done the same.

"What happens now?"

Mycroft sighed and breathed in deeply.

"Now, we eradicate the last few members of his web. And then I feel I will take a leave of abscene for awhile. I am exhausted."

"You look it. I definitely recommend a vacation as soon as possible."

"I will, John. When I feel all is safe. God knows it's been a long time since I had a true vacation. My job can be so stressful."

"But you enjoy it."

"Of course." John smiled knowlingly.

"You just like me, and like Sherlock. You grave the danger, the thrill. The adventure. Just in a different way."

Mycroft pursed his lips and nodded to Molly, who recovered the body. The two men began to walk out of the morgue together.

* * *

"What will happen to the body?"

"I don't know yet. DNA samples will be taken. The body kept here for awhile and then, I suppose buried. Or burnt." John nodded, it made sense.

"Thank you for coming. I hope it helped."

"It did thank you. I still have people to tell. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Mary."

"How is Lestrade? And his wife?"

John laughed. He had only spoke to the Inspector just a few days ago.

"They're really enjoying their cruise, they say thank you, by the way. Anna's having a lot of weird food cravings I think."

"Such as?"

"Well from what I've heard, there was jelly and worcester sauce and salmon with celery." Mycroft laughed at this, his face brightening, his smile splitting his face, his eyes somewhat sad.

"Mummy had unusual cravings with Sherlock I believe."

"Oh?" John crossed his arms, grinning. He was always eager for stories about the Holmes family.

"Yes, fish fingers and custard."

"What like on Doctor Who?" Mycroft nodded, amused.

"Quite. I do rather like the show myself and was reminded of that memory during one episode."

Mycroft liked Doctor Who, who could have guessed? John shook his head smiling. Perhaps now that he realised the common ground on which they both had stood upon, and still stood, maybe he could forgive Mycroft. Just a little at a time. He was his only living connection to Sherlock left. And it seemed he was quite protective of John and his friends. That alone was admirable. He hated how he'd acted, he hated the secrets and lies. But he respected the man, for all his faults.

"I should be going. Thanks again Mycroft."

"Not a problem John."

John waved his goodbyes and limped towards the kerb to hail a cab.

* * *

His phone began ringing as soon as the doctor was safely in his cab. Sighing, he took out the phone from his inner coat pocket and opened it.

"Hello? Irene?"

"Mycroft? Good, finally. Your brother is being a git."

"Is he? And this is a surprise how?"

"Well, I know it's only because he's in pain, because he's been so quiet and shy before this. But he's driving me insane! He keeps shouting for tea. And painkillers. And then he complains that he wants all the teddy bears removed from the room. Because they're creepy. He won't give me a minutes peace to do anything. He complains the sheets are too soft. Then too hard. He's cold, then he's hot. His head hurts, his leg hurts. And then only time I have any peace at all, is when he's drugged! I am this close to force feeding him more of those pills so he will shut the hell up!"

Mycroft couldn't help it. He roared with laughter. Even if Irene was correct and it was only the pain and grumpiness causing him to act this way, he sounded so much like his old self that Mycroft could have skipped with glee, if it wasn't so undignified. He better rescue the woman before she didn't something drastic like smother him with his pillow. Or flirt with him.

"I'll be right over."

"Thank God. Hurry!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: For those americans, or others, Jelly is gelatine.


	6. The Consulting Five Year Old

When Mycroft returned home, and he returned home as soon as he was able, he was just in time to see a greying, middle-aged woman leave Sherlock's suite in tears. She stopped in front of Mycroft, tears streaming, voice trembling and shaking her head.

"He won't eat anything! He's skin and bones Sir! I'm at my wit's end. He'll wither away to nothing, I swear it!" The cook left in a hurry, still in tears. Mycroft was unsure if this was because she was concerned for his brother's wellbeing or perhaps because his brother had been an annoying prat and insulted her. He hoped it was the latter. He hesitantly opened the door, almost worried that a hard object of some sort would be hurled in his direction the moment he entered the room. He wasn't far off.

It was a pillow.

Sherlock was propped up, on his bed, by quite a number of them. His leg was similarly lifted with a plump white cusion. He was of course in his pyjamas. And he was look positively red in the face. The minute he noticed Mycroft he pointed an accusing finger.

"Your staff are trying to kill me!"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and resisted the urge to smile.

"Are they now? I thought I hired them to prevent such a fact. Are you refering to the cook?"

"She was trying to poison me with the most disgusting, boiling soup known to mankind. I told her as such and she got upset."

"Understandably. She is concerned for your health. You aren't well Sherlock. If you could see yourself you would know this."

"I don't care. I'm not hungry anyway."

"If you refuse to eat I will have someone force feed you."

"You wouldn't dare."

"My house, my rules."

Sherlock frowned, folding his arms gently, so as not to jostle the injured limb. But he kept his mouth closed. There was no arguing with Mycroft sometimes.

"I know you are in pain. I know you don't feel well. This is why you are incredibly annoying and rude right now. This is why I was called home."

"Irene."

"Yes, where is she?"

"She said she had to go somewhere where she couldn't hear me. I have no idea where that is. I don't care anyway."

"She was trying to look after you."

"Yeah, right. Whatever" He made a 'w' with his fingers as if to emphasise his point.

"If I give you a small dose, small mind you, of the drug you were given in Switzerland and on the plane, will you behave yourself?"

"If it helps make the pain go away, then yes. I will, return to normal. Whatever that's suppose to be."

"With you, who knows?"

* * *

After injecting his brother with the painkiller, he made his way to one of the couches. Mycroft knew it wouldn't take long for the drug to begin it's work, but he also knew his brother still had questions. He watched as his younger sibling sank further into the pillows, Mycroft sighing and heaving himself up so he could drape a blanket over his very thin frame.

"Wh're were you?"

"At St Bart's. Molly was performing Moriarty's autopsy." He didn't miss the tiny flinch his brother made at the mention of the criminal's name.

"Oh. How'd it go?"

"Fairly well, I am not an expert in such things. John came by." His sibling looked up in alarm, as he knew he would.

"Why?"

"To see if Jim was really dead."

"Oh. How'd he look?"

"Jim or John?"

"J'hn." Mycroft smiled.

"He looked well. He still limps slightly. That may never go away, until you return." Sherlock turned his head away from Mycroft.

"What if I come back and j'st don't tell him?"

"Why would you want to do that? I thought you missed him?"

"Of course!"

"Then why?" Mycroft couldn't understand why Sherlock would want to hide himself away from all his friends, after being so desperate to see them. Especially John.

"I don't w'nt to hurt them. They will h'te me."

"Sherlock.."

"No! I've thought this thr'ugh. They will be happy 'm al've. But not happy that I lied. They won't tr'st me. Especially J'hn." Oh Sherlock. You really are an idiot sometimes.

"We've talke about this before. If they react in such a way then we have both seriously misjudged them. They will be happy to see you. John will be overjoyed."

"And th'n he'll punch me in the face." Sherlock looked hurt. He truly believed that although his best friend would be pleased he wasn't dead, that he may no longer want him in his life. He breached their trust. And he had greatly hurt the kind doctor. Sherlock wasn't sure he could deal with what he'd done to John. God, feelings could be so annoying.

"Well, I can't say no one has never had that urge before. But, even if you fear this reaction, you still need to tell them. It isn't fair to leave them in the dark until they just happen to come across you." Sherlock shook his head.

"It's more th'n that. 'm different. You know it. I know it. It's only when 'm grumpy that 'm a bit like my old s'lf. What if...he doesn't want to be friends any more."

"I'm going to chalk this all up to the drug in your system. Yes, you are different, and honestly, and I tell you this because you are drugged up to the brim, it breaks my heart. I do truly worry, that the old you will not return. I pray that it does. Or at least some of it does. A man can not go through what you have without changing. I'm changed because of this. So is Miss Hooper and Adler. People change Sherlock and John Watson, as a soldier, would know this. If anything this would make him less likely to throw you out on your behind. He's more likely to hug you and fuss over you. After punching you in the face and getting over the shock. Do you understand?"

Whether he did or not would have to wait until tommorow morning. The consuting detecive had fallen asleep. Was he that boring?  _The things I do for my brother and he doesn't even listen._

* * *

Mycroft patted his brother on the shoulder and tip-toed back to the couch. Later he would have to search for Irene Adler and make sure she was still in one piece. He was certain that John would not hurt Sherlock more than was necessary and if he did, the only reason he could think of would be that his return would equally hurt John. Sherlock was quite rational in his thinking. John may have been through to much pain to be able to deal with an damaged detective.

Mycroft made a spur of the moment decision. If John refused to listen to Sherlock, then Mycroft would intervene on his behalf and make John understand exactly what his little brother had gone through. And why. Maybe one day John would know just how much he helped his best friend without even being there. He had helped him in ways Mycroft couldn't. Whether it was breaking the catatonic cocoon Sherlock had surrounded himself with. Or drawing a quiet, shy Sherlock out just by telling him how John had been. Mycroft wished he had such a power. They'd become a lot closer because of this, but he could never have the bond that John and Sherlock had shared. Too much had happened.

But he still had hope. That one day they would be closer.


	7. Confessions

When Sherlock awoke the next morning, his room was deliciously free of creepy soft toys and bright, pastel banners. Milton was curled up at the end of the bed. But unfortunately his bedroom wasn't free of people. His brother was still sitting on the couch, reading the newspaper, coffee in hand. It must be very early, because he was still in his pyjamas and his elegant, green dressing gown, with an M embroidered on the chest. Like everything he owned, it had to be expensive and luxurious.

"Good morning Sherlock"

Sherlock responded with a grunt and lay his head back on his pillow. He could hear the sounds of his brother getting off the couch and making his way over to the edge of Sherlock's bed. He was poked three times before he whipped his head around and glared. Why couldn't he just leave him be? He was tired and in a great deal of pain.

"Still in pain?" _Obviously._

"Yes." He seethed.

"I see. Hungry?"

"No." _Piss off._

"Too bad. You're eating anyway. Get up."

"No." But Mycroft was already attempting to lift him up. Fine. But he won't make things easy for him. He was in too much pain. He went limp and made it as difficult as possible for Mycroft to pull him into a sitting position.

"Yes. Up. And stop sulking."

"No."

Once Sherlock was sitting and propped up with pillows, Mycroft continued.

"What shall we have for breakfast then?"

"Nothing."

"No, we will be eating. Sausages? Bacon and eggs? Cereal? Toast?" Sherlock folded his arms and looked away. Mycroft's eyes lit up and he smiled secretively.

"Ah! I know just the thing."

And with that he was gone. Sherlock turned to the empty space his brother had occupied only moments before. What was the thing? What had he suddenly decided was for breakfast? Oh God, what if it was soup? Or stew or something utterly distasteful? He made a face and moved about on the bed, trying to get comfortable. Which wasn't at all possible it seemed. Every position hurt like hell. Why couldn't he just go back to sleep? Why must his brother torment him so?

* * *

Mycroft returned half an hour later, a maid in tow. She had a large tray in her hands, Mycroft carried a glass jug of orange juice in his. The maid deposited the tray in Sherlock's lap, moving half of the things on said tray to the bedside table next to him. She then curtsied and left as quickly as possible. None of the staff could stand to be around him at the moment. Sherlock stared at the food laden plate that now sat beside him. Pancakes. His mouth almost began to water. Milton began to mew. Too bad, he'd have to wait for his own breakfast, Sherlock was not willing to share any food today.

Mycroft smiled knowingly as he took off two from the large stack and placed them on his own plate, covering them with copious amounts of warm syrup. Sherlock did the same, however he covered his with sugar and lemon juice, and while Mycroft preferred to use a knife and fork, Sherlock rolled up his pancakes and ate them with his hands, licking off any excess juice that seeped out onto his fingers. Mycroft chuckled softly to himself, remembering Sherlock as a child, eating pancakes in just the same fashion. They had such different tastes in foods. However they both had a sweet tooth, especially if the amounts of sugar Sherlock was piling onto his breakfast was anything to go by.

"Would you like some pancakes with your sugar, dear brother?"

"Shut up."

Mycroft had decided to cherish this side of his brother for as long as it lasted. It was so much like the original that he dearly missed. He poured on more syrup and looked up at his brother. Sherlock had a trail of lemon juice running down his chin. He ate as if he was starving. Quite understandable, he was nothing but skin and bones. He didn't have a case to use as an excuse and his body clearly required sustenance. Sometimes his genius bother could be extremely stupid.

* * *

"Where's Molly and Irene?" His curiosity got the better of him.

"Irene is stalking someone for me. She said anything to get her away from this house. And Molly I believe, is helping John plan a Welcome Back Party for Inspector Lestrade and his new wife. He is returning in a few days."

"Oh.."

"About last night.." Sherlock groaned as he finished the last piece of his pancake.

"Do we have to talk about that?"

"Yes I'm afraid we do. I am very concerned about you." Mycroft put his plate and glass on the bedside table and then clasped his hands together.

"Forget it. Forget what I said. It..was the drugs."

"We both know it was not. However, is that still what you believe?"

"Mycroft.."

"Is it what you still believe?" Sherlock looked away for a brief second before nodding slightly. Mycroft sighed. Oh Sherlock. Whatever will I do with you?

"Why?"

"Isn't it obvious? I know John, he'll hate me for lying, he'll hate me for not informing him, for not trusting him. I've hurt him too much, I know, I've seen it. I've..read it. I can't just show up and expect him to still want to be friends, solve cases and go on "adventures". I may not be experienced in the friend department but I am not stupid. I just...I just don't want to... if he rejects our friendship...I..I can't.." His voice trailed off. If John didn't want to be friends, he was sure he really would break. Inside of course, it wouldn't show on the outside. But he knew that he was already fragile, vulnerable, changed. He didn't want to lose John as his best friend too.

"Sherlock. He won't hate you. Maybe at first he will be angry with you, but to me he doesn't seem the person to completely abandon a friend. I am confident once he realises why you faked your death, even though he has heard the recording, and realises you are changed, he will forgive you. After all, he is beginning to forgive me. You have to trust him. And I know you do." Sherlock shook his head.

"No. I can't take that chance. I want to see him, all of them. But..I can't take that chance." _I can't take the chance that they will all reject me. Hate me. Ignore me._

"If you do not tell them and return anyway, then they really will be angry with you Sherlock. I don't know what's caused this change of heart but you have been through a lot. Soon we will have eliminated the entire web and we can end this horrible charade. Interesting though it has been. Perhaps then you will have changed your mind."

"I wish it was over now."

"So do I. It's gone on too long."

"What of Moran?"

"We are searching for him but he has gone off the radar. I fear Moriarty may have left him some unfinished business."

"Are the others safe?"

"For now."

"Let's hope they stay that way."

"Indeed. Rest, I will have someone come up and take these away."

Mycroft turned, about to leave. Sherlock quickly grasped the green fabric of the dressing gown. Mycroft looked down in surprise.

"..Thank you."

"Your welcome. Just think about what I said."

"I will."

"Good. I'll have someone come up and feed the cat. You rest." _Conserve your strength brother, I fear there is much trouble yet to come._

* * *

"Thanks for helping with all this Molly. You didn't have too."

"Nonsense! I'm always happy to help!" She exclaimed, painting the last letter on the bright yellow banner. There, finished. Much better than the one for Sherlock. She swallowed nervously when she realised she had nearly muttered that out loud. She felt like banging her head against the wall. Stupid, stupid. Keep it together Molly Hooper.

"You alright Molly? You've gone all pale?"

"What? Oh, no, I'm fine. really. All done! What do you think?" John gave her a thumbs up and she grinned back.

"Um..how do you feel now, that...Jim's dead? Sorry! Just, curious I guess. I'm glad. I know that sounds horrible it's just th-" John laughed, stopping her mid sentence.

"I'm glad too Molly. He was a horrible man, he killed probably hundreds of people, as well as my best friend. I'm happy he's gone. I feel safer. Don't you?"

She relaxed and nodded. "It's just unfair that..he..um.."

"Came back and Sherlock didn't?" She nodded sadly. Oh John if only you knew the truth.

"I know what you mean. I'd give all the money in the world for one more miracle. For him to be alive and well." He looked away, far away, perhaps imagining seeing his best friend come back to life. But he shook the daydream from his head and gave Molly a sheepish smile. She felt like she was going to cry.

"Pity those things don't happen in real life?"

"Yeah..." Oh John..


	8. Welcome and Unwelcome Changes

There was a sleek, black car waiting for Greg and Anna Lestrade when their plane touched down. It could only have come from one person. It was warm and comfortable and a welcome alternative to taking a cab home. And when they arrived home, they were pleasantly surprised by a large party of their friends. John, Mary, Mrs Hudson, Sally and Anderson, several other members of the yard and several of Anna's friends and family, were all there to welcome them home. There was food and drinks galore as the group peppered them with questions. What did they do? Did they enjoy their trip? Anything interesting happen? They did their best to answer them all.

It was about two hours into their Welcome Back Party, that Lestrade found himself taken aside by John. His friend looked happier than he'd ever seen him. Greg also noticed that the bloke he'd been telling him about, Normund or something, was noticeably absent from the party.

"Didn't you tell me you had a mate coming over to stay?" John sighed and nodded.

"Yeah but he couldn't come. Actually he is part of what I wanted to talk to you about." Greg was intrigued and more than a bit concerned.

"Oh? Go on then mate."

"Jim Moriarty is dead. His body is lying in St Bart's morgue. I've seen it." Greg's jaw must have dropped because a smile flitted onto John's face.

"Dead?..Really? As in, never coming back dead? Shit. That's great!" John laughed. It was nice to see him laugh, he did it so rarely.

"Yeah. Mycroft shot him in the head. See, he kidnapped Normund. That's why he isn't here."

"Shit..is he alright?" Wait, Mycroft shot him? Our Mycroft? Duh Greg..who else do we know called Mycroft. But still..

"Yeah, injured but Mycroft said he was ok. He went back to his home country to recover with his family. Poor guy. It's all my fault he got tangled up into all this."

Lestrade shook his head and rested his hand on John's shoulder.

"Don't think like that John. It wasn't your fault, Moriarty was a mad man. This is what he wanted you to think. I'm sure Normund doesn't blame you."

"Who knows? Kinda worried, he hasn't contacted me since before he was captured."

"Probably still recovering. Give it time." John gave a half hearted grin and raised his glass.

"How's Anna and the baby?" Greg beamed, his favourite subject!

"Great! The baby was kicking his little heart out the whole time we were on the ship. Got a powerful kick. He's gonna be a footballer. No doubt about it." Another genuine laugh from John.

"That's good to hear. Come, we better join the girls before they think we've abandoned them."

"They'd have our arses in slings!"

The party lasted well into the night, and the next day, it was declared a complete success.

* * *

Over the next two weeks, Sherlock slowly recovered from his ordeal. His head still ached, his hand still hurt and his leg still caused him a great deal of pain, but his doctors were confident he would make a full recovery in no time. But his leg would always feel the cold and now when it was about to rain or storm. Like a war wound, said the doctor. War wound. Did John's do that? Had it been a war, what Sherlock had gone through? Could be categorised as such? He'd fought battles, suffered horrific torture, been attacked by his greatest enemy. Could he called all that a war? The War Against Jim Moriarty? Maybe.

As he gradually began to heal, his rudeness and arrogance dissipated, the pain no longer making him angry and obnoxious to his family and friends. He missed it slightly, but he just couldn't seem to hold onto it. But he did feel better. As if Jim's death had been somewhat therapeutic for him. Sherlock never considered therapy before. Especially since John's therapist had been a complete idiot. Had he gone back to her lately? Hopefully not. But therapy was never something he considered for himself, though Mycroft had mentioned it several times back during his addict days. Sherlock didn't really want to speak to a therapist. A therapist was a complete stranger, they wouldn't know anything about who he was or what he used to be like.

There was only one medical professional that Sherlock had ever trusted. Perhaps, if, and it was a big if, he returned and revealed his living status to John, and John didn't hate him utterly and completely, maybe he could talk to John. Maybe John could be his therapist. No, that was a rubbish idea. Telling someone his problems wouldn't solve anything. Look where it got Mycroft. However, he did feel like he needed to heal on the inside as well as on the outside. Sherlock could feel himself returning back to that quiet and lonely detective. He didn't like it. But he felt helpless to stop it.

He'd also noticed how insecure he'd become. Becoming so aware of that loneliness and longing for his best friend and bonded brother. Emotions, while he had never found them difficult to understand in other people, he was a detective after all, he had always ignore his own, pushed them down. They'd only ever caused him pain. But since finding John, that had changed. He felt that only John would be able to set his soul right. But he didn't know if or when he'd ever see him again.

* * *

Mycroft was saddened to see his brother slip back into the shadow detective, the lonely boy who lurked behind the black shadows of his room or sat on that fabled window seat, who still enjoyed watching the stars. They seemed the fill him with such wonder. Or perhaps they just reminded him of better times, to never take anything for granted. Happiness, friendship. These were things he had lost. Mycroft wanted to get them back, to gift wrap them and hand them to his brother on a silver platter. He wanted to catch the sniper and make him wish he'd never been born. He wanted everything to go back to the way it used to be. To the way it should be.

But achieving things like this were not as easy as simple wishes. They took time, effort, pain. And Sherlock still wanted to help. Anything to make things move faster.

_A few more months Sherlock. I promise you, just a few more. Then you can go home._


	9. When Mary Met Sherlock Part 1

Two months and three weeks passed. It was now early May and Sherlock was growing restless. He spent a small amount of time undercover, hair once again dyed a rich red, sideburns now adorned the edges of his sculpted face. He'd do anything to get out of the house and have the chance to glimpse his old friends from a distance. They were happy. It didn't seem fair. Life never was, Sherlock had long ago decided.

In between going undercover and silently taking out the last remaining members of Moriarty's empire, Sherlock would lounge around on his bed or the window seat. He would play with Milton, read any book he could get his hands on, watch 'boring' and 'predictable' movies with Molly on his telly or let Irene play around with his hair. Life was dull, monotonous, for the most part. The only times he felt truly alive was when he was running through the streets of London, chasing a suspect or trying to escape one. But those times were far too few.

His injuries had healed. He still limped on occasion, especially when the whether changed. He jokingly wondered if his psychosomatic limp had returned. If it had, could John cure it? Like Sherlock cured his? It was an interesting thought. John, Sherlock knew, was close to 'popping the question'. He'd watched his best friend via the CCTV footage for weeks, the doctor trying to gain the courage and find the right words. Nothing seemed to convince him to go ahead with it. Sherlock knew he wasn't supposed to feel happy about that. But he was. Married, John was closed off from him. Out of reach. The bonds of matrimony would be stronger than the bonds of friendship and brotherhood, he thought. Hopefully, if he decided to, when they were reunited it would not be after John married Mary.

* * *

Another week would pass before Moran made his first direct attempt on someone's life. Sherlock was awoken in the early morning, by a clearly stressed Mycroft. Sherlock was the only person he would ever have allowed to see him in such a state. He ordered him out of bed and to get dressed as quickly as possible. And even stranger than that, to pack. Sherlock did as he was told, he rarely argued anymore. He pulled on his black jeans and a warm long sleeved top. As much as he wished he could wear his favourite coat, it would probably draw too much attention. But he packed it anyway and opted for a black, military style coat with bright silver buttons. He met Mycroft in his office, packed and ready. A flask of hot chocolate awaited him on his brother's desk.

"We have reason to believe an attempt will be made on Miss Mary Morstan's and John Watson's livese this afternoon. Seperate attempts of course, while they are both at work. It is safer if we keep them apart. I have informed Lestrade that they will be taken into protective custody. You are to take Miss Mary to one of our safe houses and remain with her until I say so."

Sherlock took a moment to digest this piece of information.

"Wait, why can't I take John?"

"It's far too risky. He'll be taken to another safe house with me. Moran does not yet know you are alive. You will pose as one of my operatives. Although I am sure Miss Mary will see through that quickly enough. Be careful, Moran has snipers under his command."

"I don't like this. I should be with John. I don't know this Mary. We've only met once."

"It's because you want to be with John that I cannot allow it. He will cloud your judgement. Besides, I thought perhaps you might want a practice run on revealing that you aren't dead. Now, we have been to their flat and packed a suitcase for the both of them. You are to enter the staff room during lunch and lead her out. Here are your credentials. I have already informed the school principal. Take her to the car. You will then be driven out of London and switch cars. After the switch you will then be driven to the safe house. I will have five of my men accompany you. Stay safe."

This wasn't right. He didn't care about  _her_. He only cared about John. And now John was in great danger. He knew Mycroft would keep his word and protect his best friend, but he would much prefer to protect the doctor himself, than his  _girlfriend._ Still it was the sort of adventure he had been craving. And, as much as he hated to admit it, Mycroft was right. He could practice with Mary. Perhaps he could even ask her if he ought to reveal himself and if so, how did she think John would react? Mycroft was already pressuring him to move, so he put aside these thoughts for later and hurried out of the building to the seemingly ordinary cab waited out front.

* * *

The cab stopped outside a boring, red brick primary school. Sherlock placed a football cap on his head and lifted the collar of his new coat, rushing through the school gates. The staff room was dead ahead, he could see several teachers laughing at some ridiculous joke. Oh, how he hated teachers. Perhaps that was why he didn't trust Mary. Teachers had never been kind to the young Sherlock Holmes. Never helped him, never cared about what happened to him. They were rude and even had the audacity to call him a freak. However Mary didn't seem the type to treat her own students that way.

He burst through the doors, two men behind him. Sherlock wasted no time in grabbing the protesting and increasingly frightened Mary and almost dragging her out the of the staff room, the men behind him reassuring everyone that they had orders from up high. The school bell rang, the students by now had disappeared into their classrooms. Sherlock was glad they had timed things so the kids would not have to see three strange men drag one of their teachers, kicking and screaming.

Sherlock gently pushed her into the cab and followed after her, the doors locking once they were both inside. As the car sped away, he felt a hand grab his collar, another slapping him hard across the face.

"Let me go you thug! Let me out!"

"Calm down Miss Morstan please. This is for your own protection." Sherlock removed his cap and smoothed out his ginger curls.

"Calm down? How can I bloody calm down? Protection? Who are you people?" Her face was red from screaming, tears of terror trickled down her face and as she wiped them away she finally got a proper look at her kidnapper's face. That...was not possible. That man beside her was dead. Ginger hair aside, he looked exactly like a man she knew her lover had mourned for over a year.

"An attempt was to be made on your life. Mycroft believed it safer if we separate you and John Watson until we have caught the assassin or until he deems it safe to return. Theres a suitcase with some of your belongings in the boot. We are currently heading to a safe house in the country. You will be quite safe there..I will..why are you looking at me like that?"

"..It's you isn't it? You're alive." Her voice was almost a whisper. Was it really him? If so, why had he faked his death? Why had he put his friends through so much unnecessary pain?

"Who do you think I am?" He was curious now, did she recognise him despite never actually meeting him?

"Sherlock Holmes"


	10. When Mary Met Sherlock Part 2

_"Who do you think I am?"_

_"Sherlock Holmes"_

* * *

Sherlock didn't reply for exactly three minutes.

"Yes."

And then there was silence. Mary was probably putting pieces together. The Fall, his phone, the mysterious doctor at the hospital. Or she was just in shock. After all it wasn't everyday that the best friend of your lover comes back to life and kidnaps you, was it? She smiled for a few seconds, then pulled back her fist and swung it forward, punching him in the face. That, he had not expected.

The force and shock of the blow pushed him into the car door behind him and he almost slipped off his seat. Sherlock winced, placing one hand over his eye, which would no doubt have a nice bruise later on. What the hell did she punch him for? Wasn't she supposed to be the nice one?

"What..? Why..why did you..?" He was almost speechless. Mary however glared at him.

"That was for making everyone think you were dead. That was also for John. Do you know how upset he's been over this? First thinking you killed yourself and that he'd missed all the signs and then finding out you 'died' to save him. Or are you as cold and unfeeling as some people have said?"

Sherlock felt like something had hit him deep inside his chest. That was the other thing he feared, that people would assume it was all a big experiment. That he was indeed, the cold and cruel, high-functioning sociopath that everyone thought he was. Which wasn't true. It was in fact, so very far from the truth. But would they believe him? Would she?

"Of course I know...I had no choice" He whispered.

Mary however remained unconvinced, she opened her mouth but was interrupted by the sound of a bullet hitting the side of the cab, and then another and another. Sherlock roared at the driver, who needed no encouragement and raced down the streets of London like a bat out of Hell. More bullets peppered the car, Sherlock gasped as he felt something hot hit his shoulder, but there was no time to stop and think about it. He'd already grabbed Mary and pulled her down to the floor of the cab and ordered her to stay there.

"What's happening?" She cried, her voice wavering.

"We're being shot at.." What did you think was happening?

"But why? What did you do? Why did you drag me into this?" Yes because it's automatically  _my_  fault. Thanks.

"They aren't after me. They think I'm dead. They're after you, on posthumous orders from Moriarty." Her eyes widened. Finally she was seeing sense.

"M-me? But what did I do?"

"You're connected to John. John was connected to me."

"So it is your fault."

"...Let's not discuss this here."

"Now is the perfect time!"

"We're being shot at!" Are you out of your mind?

Mary once again glared back at him and folded her arms and decided to ignore him. Just as well, Sherlock gasped as the fabric on his coat brushed against his open wound. Thankfully she didn't notice or didn't care. It didn't seem to be bleeding to badly and they were now almost at the switch point, so he put it out of his mind.

* * *

Two hours later they were in a jeep and arriving in front of a quaint little country cottage. The men that had been brought to protect them removed their luggage and scouted the perimeter. Once the all clear was given they all entered the little house. Mary was confused. Surely they wouldn't all fit in here? It was far too small. And why were they all suddenly heading towards the bathroom? Mary quietly followed, watching in amazement as one of the men twisted a tap on the bath and it swung around, revealing a trap door beneath. Sherlock caught her looking and realised he should probably explain. Even though he couldn't really be bothered.

"Theres a large bunker beneath this cottage. Several bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, living room and supplies room. Everything we'll need." With the bunker door open he hurried down the ladder, eager to get to a first aid kit and throw his luggage into one of the bedrooms. He wanted to be as far away from Mary as possible.

Mary slowly descended the ladder and looked around the quiet bunker. It look, for all intents and purposes like a normal house. Except there were no windows, the heating hadn't been turned on apparently and it was dark. She turned a corner and found an empty bedroom. It was fairly ordinary. Single bed, bedside table, chest of drawers and a chair. She placed her suit case on the bed and opened it. Clothes, books, toiletries and a few photos had all been neatly packed, it was as if she herself had packed it. She removed her coat and pulled it around her shoulders and went in search for her "dead" kidnapper.

"Sherlock?" She strained her hears for sounds of movement or grumbling. Instead she heard hissing coming from one of the bathrooms. She tip-toed towards the door and opened it. Sherlock was perched on a closed toilet seat, his coat off, trying in vain to reach something on his shoulder, which appeared to be bleeding!

"Oh my God, are you ok? You're bleeding!" Brilliant deduction. Was it all the blood that gave it away?

"Obviously. I think I was shot, but the bullet can't have penetrated my shoulder. I would have felt that. What are you doing?" Mary had taken the first aid kit out of his hands and motioned for him to turn around, while she sat on the edge of the bath.

"I'm going to clean this wound, properly. I'm sorry but I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut this shirt."

"Fine. Do whatever." He responded quietly. He wasn't in the mood for arguing.

Mary picked up a pair of scissors and carefully cut away pieces of his shirt to reveal his shoulder wound. Satisfied nothing had been caught in it, she gently began to clean it, trying to ignore the gasps, hisses and murmurs of pain coming from her patient or the occasional flinch.

"Oh stop being such a baby. It's just a graze. Still, you'll have a nice scar I think." Oh how wonderful. I'll add it to the collection.

"Don't think just because you've been wounded, that you get a free pass on answering my questions."

"Can't it wait till tomorrow? I'm tired." And hurt. And no I'm not inwardly pouting. He could hear her sighing as she started to bandage up his shoulder. Where had she learned this? Surely John wouldn't have taught her. No, this came second nature to her.

"I'll think about it. There, all done." She seemed pleased with her handiwork. Sherlock picked up the dressing gown he'd brought with him and slung it over his shoulders with great care.

"Where did you learn to do that? You're a teacher, not a nurse or a doctor."

"My father." She smiled sadly. Most likely dead then.

"He was in the RAF. Thought it was useful knowledge. Actually I wanted to become a nurse but I found a greater calling in teaching. Not all of us get to make up our own professions you know." Of course I know. I'm not stupid.

"I see. Well..um..thank you. If you don't mind, I'm going to go and rest." Mary looked down at her blood covered hands, wiping them on a towel.

"What happens to me know?"

"We wait to hear from Mycroft. He will have already been notified that we have arrived...relatively safely."

"And John?"

"He is in the safest of hands, I assure you." He turned and left, leaving her alone with her fears and questions.

* * *

Sherlock returned to his room to find something peeking out from under the bed. How on earth? Of course...Mycroft. The detective winced as he knelt down and retrieved the black kitten from his hiding place and closed the door.

"You shouldn't be here Milton, it's not safe." He whispered into the kitten's ear, who responded by licking his nose.

"But I'm glad you are here" Sherlock placed him on the bed and lay down beside him, the kitten curling up against his chest and purring.

Because I need a friend right now.


	11. Questions and Answers

He awoke several hours later that night, to a knock on his door. He pulled back the covers and gently moved Milton aside. Sherlock crept towards the door and opened it warily. It was Mary, also in her pyjamas and dressing gown. She had a tray in her hands, it had a teapot, cups and saucers and a plate filled with scrambled eggs on toast. She gave him a shy smile.

"Truce?"

She didn't wait for a reply, simply placing the tray on his nightstand and occupied the empty chair. Sherlock was quite confused as to why she was in his room, with food, asking for a truce. Did he miss something? Why was she staring at him like that? Really, it was too late...or too early for such things. Sherlock was tired and simply wanted to go back to sleep, he did not want to have a midnight tea party with his best friend's lover. And yet, here she was.

"What do you want?" He yawned, climbing back onto his bed.

She smiled nervously again and poured him a cup of tea. "I know you don't like me. I just wanted to talk. I couldn't sleep...so much has happened today. My whole life has been turned upside down."

"Couldn't this have waited until morning?" Mary shook her head, handing him the cup and pouring one for herself.

"No. I have to know now or I don't think I'll be able to sleep." Sherlock sighed and took the offered cup.

"Ask quickly then. And keep the food, I'm not hungry." She chuckled lightly as if she'd been expecting such an answer.

"Ok. Um, why did you fake your death?" Wasn't that obvious?

"Because I didn't want to die. I didn't know he was going to threaten people, but the possibility of him trying to make me kill myself was highly likely."

"Well, that makes sense. Why didn't you tell anyone you were alive? John was so distraught that he'd somehow contributed to your suicide. And he had to mourn you all over again when he realised that you had in fact saved his life."

"It wasn't safe, people were still out there who could harm the three of them. I could not take that risk. But I used my 'death' wisely, to take down Moriarty's empire." Sherlock poured a little bit of milk into his saucer and picked up Milton, who eagerly began to lick it all. Mary raised her eyebrow at the sight of the kitten. She didn't think Sherlock would be a pet person. So he had been concerned for the welfare of his friends so kept himself hidden. Still, all that unnecessary pain and grief...

"You have a kitten?" Obviously.

"Milton."

"After John Milton?" _Oh, you know who he is do you? How smart of you._

"Yes."

"You named your cat John."

"I named him Milton. There's quite a difference." She smirked.

"I'm sure."

"He was a christmas present." Milton gave a little burp and wobbled, before turning around and crawling into Sherlock's lap.

"Ah. I see. He's adorable." She lifted her hand up to pat his little head but Milton was having none of that, he pawed at her hand as if to say, 'Hands off the fur lady!'. Sherlock silently praised his pet, stroking him on the head, which produced a loud, pleasing purr.

"He is my constant companion."

He allowed himself a small smile, still petting the sleepy kitten. Somehow that simple, throwaway sentence broke Mary's heart. Yes she was mad at him, she wanted to punch him again in the face for all the pain he'd caused John. But the fact that a kitten was now his best friend, that was incredibly sad. How lonely he must feel. He wasn't at all what she imagined him to be and what John described. Had her darling exaggerated? Or was it something else?

"You're different than I expected. I always thought you'd be rude, arrogant and well...generally ridiculous. That's how John always described you...was he wrong?" Sherlock looked away, he had hoped she wouldn't know the difference but it seems John had spoken about him a great length. Maybe since she helped John, she could give him some advice? Or was that stupid? After all his own brother couldn't heal him.

"No. I am different. People change..."  _I think..don't they?_

"Not that much. You look sad, do you want to talk about it?" He shook his head. Was he that obvious?

"It's not important. It's just that, sometimes if something breaks, and you put all the pieces back together, there will be one missing. And no matter what you do you can't find the missing piece. So you replace it. It's not the same but it prevents things from falling apart.." _Do you understand? Because I am not good at explaining these sorts of things to peope who aren't John._  Mary's eyes widened and then softened. The poor man. He was broken? Oh Sherlock.

"I see. I suppose you won't tell me what happened...John's missed you very much you know." He nodded, curls tumbling about.

"He's been doing fine without me though..."

"What are you saying?"

"..Perhaps I shouldn't tell him I'm alive..." He looked down at Milton, certain of her reaction.

"You have to. He deserves to know. Please tell him you're alive."

"...I can't."

"I'll tell him if you don't. I will never be able to keep something this big a secret. Please, it would make him so happy.."  _I'm sure it would help you too._  He closed his eyes tightly.

"I..I can't..and he won't be happy. I know him. It's not safe yet anyway..please don't try and convince me."

"I don't understand. You obviously care about him very much, why won't you tell him?" Sherlock had no idea why he decided to tell her. Maybe it was because she seemed remarkably perceptive, had a kind, trusting face. Maybe it was her close connection to John. Maybe he just wanted to tell someone.

"I'm different and not just a little different. Very different. I..I don't know if I can be the same person I once was. And John isn't going to forgive me for lying to him, not trusting him, hurting him. He is going to be angry and he is going to hate me. And if he does...I..I..I don't want to talk about this anymore, please leave the room." His eyes were wide and incredibly blue, she half expected him to tear up and she suspected he wasn't far off. Perhaps it hadn't been a good idea to ask him these things in the middle of the night when he was obviously exhausted.

"..He won't hate you and..alright. I will see you in the morning. Good night Sherlock Holmes." A grunt was her reply. She picked up the tray and turned off the light.

"Goodnight Mary."

* * *

_Hours earlier..._

* * *

"No, you let me out of here right now. I demand to see Mycroft Holmes!"

"Sir, he is detained at the moment, if you would just sit down and wait.."

"Don't you Sir me. You bring him here now, or so help me I'll break down that bloody door! I was a soldier so don't think I can't do it." The young guard and gulped and pressed a button on the intercom.

"Mr Watson is demanding to see Mr Holmes immediately. Please inform him A.S.A.P."

Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door and the guards were all quickly dismissed. Mycroft entered with his umbrella and a briefcase and motion for John to sit in one of the comfy armchairs behind him. Once they were both settled, Mycroft pondered on the best way to explain things to John. He would no doubt have a volatile reaction.

"Alright Mycroft, I think I've been pretty patient about all this. What the hell is going on? Where's Mary? I get a call saying some government agents kidnapped her from work. Next thing I know, I'm being kidnapped myself. I demand to know what's going on!" Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing his temple with two fingers.

"An attempt was to be made on both your lives. Thanks to an informant we have been able to prevent that. It is not safe to keep you together, so Mary has been relocated to a safe house and you will as well. A different one of course." Shit, shit shit. Oh this was very not good. An attempt on their lives? Who would do such a thing? Moriarty was dead, John was positive. So who ordered the hit?

"You are wondering where the order came from?"

"Yes, do you know?"

"We believe there were orders that were to be followed through in the event that Moriarty died. This is one of those orders. Rest assured I will do everything in my power to protect you both." John nodded, his anger dissipating as he steadily grew tired from yelling, fuming and the lateness of the hour.

"She's safe?"

"She is with my best agent. She is perfectly safe. Come, you can stay here tonight. Tomorrow we will move you to the safe house." Mycroft stood and directed John to the door.

"Molly is here still. She hasn't yet moved into her new apartment. And you may see Irene later, she's been tracking people for us.."

Mycroft's voice faded into the background as they walked down the hallway together. He hoped Mary was safe and that she wasn't frightened. She was a brave and strong woman but even something like this, well, something like this could scare the shit out of John. But if Mycroft said he would protect her, then he bloody well better protect her. Or there will be hell to pay.


	12. Waffles, Coffee and Mary

Sherlock climbed out of bed at half past eleven in the morning, pulled on his dressing gown and popped Milton into one of the pockets. The kitten gave a pleased mew and settled into his new 'bed'. Yawning the detective wandered out of his room to make himself a coffee. But someone had already beaten him to it. Dressed in a bright pink, in Sherlock's opinion pink was the most horrendous of colours, dressing gown and smiling broadly, was Mary. She'd made waffles and coffee. Sherlock sighed and fell onto one of the couches and turned away from her. Her face fell. But she knew she should have expected such a reaction. Milton however climbed out of his pocket and sat on Sherlock's hip, watching her intently.

"Coffee?"

_Grunt._

"Waffles?"

_Grunt._

"Does a grunt mean yes or no?"

_Grunt._

"Oh, that's helpful." She sat down at the table and sipped her coffee, nervously tapping the wood.

"Can I speak to John? Let him know I'm ok?"

"Soon." Was the quiet reply. Success! We have achieved vocal conversation!

"How soon is that? He worries, you know he does. He's probably yelling at someone at this very moment."

"Good."

Molly took another sip.

"Listen Sherlock. For what it's worth, John could never hate you. He could be angry at you, yes. But hate you entirely, I don't think he could do that to a friend. You and John, you have one of those rare bonds of friendship you only see in movies or read about in books."

"That was a long time ago."

"Those things don't just go away. They might weaken, but they won't disappear. Look, if you decide not to tell him, because you're scared or don't believe he'll understand...I won't tell him. I can see it hurts you to think about it. Even with your back turned. I don't know what happened or what you went through, it's obviously changed you or as you put it, it broke you. John would want to help with that too. I think if you told him what happened, he'll do whatever he could to fix things. But, if you don't want to tell him..." Sherlock didn't reply. After several awkward minutes he stood up, not apologising to an angry Milton, stepped onto the coffee table and over to the larger table. He took his coffee and some waffles and went back to his couch.

Mary understood.

* * *

"When can I talk to her?"

"Soon John, soon."

"I want to speak to her right now."

"Too risky. In an hour or so you can. Don't fret, she is safe." John continued his pacing.

"That's not good enough. No offence but I want to hear that from her own lips."

Mycroft sipped his tea. The minute Dr Watson had woken up he had asked to see Miss Morstan. However Mycroft believed they ought to wait until the afternoon or at least the late morning. John though, had already lost his patience. And his pacing was becoming increasingly annoying.

"Will you please sit down?" It's getting annoying.

"Not until I hear from Mary." _Fine. If it will put you at ease._

"Very well. Wait here." Mycroft stood and left for his office. He dialled the secure line created for Mary and Sherlock and waited. To his surprise it was Mary that answered. He could hear the telly in the background, accompanied by Sherlock's groaning and Milton's loud mewing.

"Hello?"

"Mr Holmes?"

"Miss Morstan. How are you? Forgive me for the nature in which you were taken but time was of the essence."

"Yes..I understand. Hold on. Can you please turn that thing down?" The volume of the telly was only got louder. Mary sighed and moved to another room.

"Sorry about that. He's quiet and..a bit shy but very grumpy."

"Yes that's him all over. Listen, John is desperate to speak to you."

"The feeling is mutal. Can I speak to him? Please?" He must be out of his mind with worry.

"Yes, on the condition that you do not mention Sherlock and you keep things brief. One moment." Mycroft open the door and requested that John be brought to his office.

"Of course. We've...aready talked about it. I won't say anything. He's not like what I imagined." _Far from it. I'm worried about him._

"A lot has happened to him. Terrible things. Ah! That sounds like John's feet running down the hallway." And it was. The doctor threw the door open and glared at Mycroft, who handed to phone to John, rather than risk it being ripped out of his hands.

"Mary?" _Oh please be ok._

"John!"

"Are you ok?" He sounded out of breath and deeply worried. Oh John. Lovely, kind, sweet John.

"Yes, I'm fine." She could hear him sigh in relief.

"Are you?" _You always blame yourself._

"What? Yes, yes. God, apparently I can't speak for long. Just, stay safe ok? I can't lose you too Mary. I just can't." _Oh John, you are not as alone as you think._

"I'll be ok. Don't worry. Soon this will all be over and we can laugh about it." John gave a nervous chuckle.

"You're probably right. Mycroft's motioning for me to get off. Remember what I said and don't give your bodyguards any grief."

"As long as you promise the same John. Goodbye darling, see you soon!"

"Love you Mary." Always and forever.

"Love you John."

* * *

Mary hung up the phone, a tear trickling down her face. She wiped her eyes and turned, only to find the detective right behind her. She jumped in surprise, he had an unidentifiable expression on his face.

"You were talking to John." He stated.

"Yes, to make sure he was ok."

"Was he?"

"He's worried but he's fine...are you?" He nodded but it was clear to Mary that he was lying.

"You miss him."

"No." Yes.

"Liar." You're very perceptive.

"I'm sure you'll get to see him again soon.." I can't.

"So will you...don't try and run from this Sherlock. It's your decision. But I think you should tell him. You'll regret it if you don't and if he finds out himself...it won't be pretty."

"I've made my decision." _I don't want my heart broken._

"Let's hope it's the right one..."


	13. The Detective's Nightmares

Nightmares were funny things. Sherlock's often ended or started the same. In a Chinese prison. He rarely remembered what happened in between, when it ended in the prison he would always wake up sweating, panting and occasionally screaming. Thankfully this was rare. However it didn't stop him from tossing in his bed, crying out in his sleep.

_The first dream was surreal. He fell off a waterfall made of blood. Moriarty laughed and swatted his broken body around while he lay on the snow, dying. He was singing. Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the King's horses and all the King's men, couldn't put Humpty together again. The landscape changed and he was in Mycroft's house. Moriarty was in a blood-red suit, laughing and dancing around the bodies that littered the floor. Mycroft, dead. Molly, dead. Irene, dead. Even Milton. He began to hyperventilate and tears fell from his eyes. Jim's face seem to become that of a vampire's, demon wings spouting from his back. He lifted a gun and aimed it at Sherlock, singing a lullaby. Then the dream changed._

_The second dream was in Baker Street. It was dark and Sherlock was returning, back from the dead. He pushed open the door and crept inside, wanting to surprise John. But what he got instead was a horrific surprise of his own. John lay on the floor with a bullet in his skull. His face one of shock, eyes wide open, his own gun in his hands. Sebastian Moran stood over him, grinning manically._

_"Should have got here sooner, Mr Holmes. Maybe you could have saved your friend. He put up a good fight, but I was always the better 'sidekick'." He laughed and left Sherlock to mourn alone. The detective fell to his knees beside John's body. No, no, no. Not John. Not John. Happy John, teasing John, soldier John, doctor John. Best friend John. Not him. He couldn't leave him. He'd just returned. It's not fair. It's not fair!_

_He cried and cradled his friend's body. Oh John, oh John. No, no, no. Why?_

_I'm sorry. Please come back._

_And then it changed again. For the third and last time._

_He was in the prison. There were whips and knives. Fists and feet. Pain. There was a lot of pain. He screamed, he cried. He told them to stop. Over and over. He was burning, he was on fire. His foot was on fire. Moriarty was smiling gleefully. Moran was laughing. More pain. A cell. A cold, cold cell. No blanket. A mattress and a pillow. He crawled onto the mattress and curled up tightly. The door was closed and he was in complete darkness. He didn't like the dark anymore. He didn't like small spaces. Irrational but unavoidable._

_A bucket of water is thrown over his body and he shivered. He is hauled up and led out of the room again. No sleep. So tired. He is beaten again. A hot poker inches toward his chest and presses against an open wound on his side. He screams and then he finally wakes up._

* * *

Sherlock awoke, sweat pouring down his brow, Milton mewing in concern and himself panting. He hated nightmares. He didn't have them as often as he used to though. He tried to calm himself down and found a mug of hot chocolate was being pushed into his hands. Someone sat next to him and began to rub circles into his back, whispering to him. Telling him it was ok. For a moment he pretended it was John. But he knew it was Mary. His shaking hands brought the mug up to his lips and he sighed in pleasure as the warm liquid trickled down his throat. His dressing gown was wrapped around his shoulders. He turned and stared at her, pale and shivering.

"Wha-? Why.. why are you in my room?" She smiled sadly, brushing a curl to the side of his face.

"You woke me up I'm afraid. Are you ok? It sounded horrible." He stared at his reflection in the chocolate. Milton began to purr and rub Sherlock's side, climbing into his lap.

"...No." He whispered honestly. "I'm not ok."

Mary felt terrible. She'd been woken by the screams and cries and rushed to his room to find him tossing and turning. When it seemed as if he was waking up she had rushed into the kitchen and made some hot chocolate, pressing it into his hands to calm him down. He was a mess. A shivering, scared, lonely boy of a mess. She wished and hoped she could help him somehow.

"Deep breaths. Do you want to tell me about it?" He shook his head, his face starting to screw up and he turned away, sipping his drink with shaking hands.

"It might help."

"I..I can't. I haven't even told Mycroft."

"Because he's your brother. Tell me, please I want to help you." Sherlock's eyes grew wide and he wondered if he could really tell her.

"You won't think less of me?"

"Of course not! Just the opposite. Go on honey." Honey?

"I..it's hard to start. I was captured by Moriarty, in the middle of last year and...tortured. Horrifically..."

"That's terrible! Wait, I thought Moriarty was dead...sorry, I shouldn't be interrupting. Go on." Clearly John hadn't told her everything.

"No, he faked it. He...I was sent to this disused prison. I was tortured so much that I..Mycroft said I was catatonic. That I'd retreated into myself. I don't really remember much of it. But he found me that way and I was like that for about a week or so. I scared him. He thought I was lost , that I'd never find my way home. But I did. Because of John." Mary continued rubbing his back as he spoke, feeling tears sting her eyes. No one should have to go through something like that. She realised with horror, what would have happened if he was still locked up in his own mind?

"What do you mean?"

"Mycroft used his name. Told me he was in trouble. Apparently my desire to save John brought me back. I've never seen Mycroft so relieved about anything. From then on.. I've been different. Thats what I dreamed about. The torture..the pain. Jim." He continued to sip his drink. He felt relieved, she didn't look as if she pitied him, she looked worried and sad. Mary was grateful that he had told her but wondered what she could do with the information now. She would maybe not be as harsh towards him as she had been before. It was clear to her that the only person who could truly help him was John. But Sherlock was afraid to see John.

She agreed that just appearing would probably scare the hell out of him, she knew that there had to be another way to break the news. Gently and slowly. They'd figure something out. If the detective agreed to see him. Even if he didn't. She gave his shoulder a reassuring hug and stood up but a hand on her dressing gown stopped her.

"Please. Stay. Just for a minute." He didn't want to be alone until he'd calmed down. It was a stupid, irrational feeling but he needed it.

"Alright. Give me your cup and get back into bed." Sherlock obeyed and crawled back under the covers, Milton moving to sleep on his pillow, next to the detective's curly locks. Ten minutes later he was asleep. Mary tucked him in and turned out the light.

"We'll solve this Sherlock. Somehow."


	14. Moving Day and Wishful Thinking

The next few days were relatively quiet. They got up, Mary cooked, Sherlock lazed around on the couch. Both read, Sherlock slept and sometimes they would sit in front of the telly and watch a movie. One day Mary had suggested a board game, she had heard tales of John and Sherlock playing Cluedo and another of an interesting game of scrabble. Sherlock had apparently become annoyed that John thought half his words were made up and retaliated by speaking only using the scrabble tiles for the rest of the day. Eventually, somehow, a tile fight started, letters flying everywhere, Sherlock ended up on the floor laughing, John could barely stand, neither knew what was so amusing. It was one of those memories that gave John a sad, but happy look on his face, like he felt both the humour and the loss at the exact same time. A bittersweet memory.

So they'd played Monopoly, one of the bodyguards joined in while on his break. It was actually rather enjoyable, Sherlock was terrible with his money, but somehow still won. Mary should have suspected that, but she didn't mind. She like to think this was a distraction from what she knew was bothering him. John. Did he wonder if John would have to choose between the two of them? Mary was more than happy to share, but she understood that Sherlock might fear John choosing to stay with Mary and not wanting to return to being flatmates with his best friend. Sherlock had even whispered to her the day before, ' _Will John still want to be my best friend?'._  It had made her heart ache. He had so few friends, so feared losing the one that mattered most.  _Of course_ , she told him. He would always want to be his friend. But he didn't seem to be convinced.

A few days later she learnt that he was both Basil Baker and Normund Sigerson. She'd spent the rest of the day ignoring him and generally being in a bad mood. Eventually she reasoned that it was because he missed his friend so much that he did both those things. It must have been so painful for him to see his friend but be unable to tell him the truth. Many of Normund's emails had brought her to tears and now realising who the writer was, she felt horrible for being angry at him. So she had entered his room and apologised, finding him sitting on his bed looking at a photo frame on his bedside table. It was of Sherlock and John. Laughing. The exact same on John kept on his desk and smiled at every morning.  _Oh Sherlock. I'd hug you so tight but I know you wouldn't let me. We have to find a way to make things right. You just need to let me help you._

* * *

Two days later they were forced to move. Their location had been discovered and they had to rush to pack, climb into the jeep and be moved to another safe house. Mary was terrified, though the bodyguards assured her that nearly all the snipers had been found. Only a few remained. Soon she would be able to return home. The house they arrived at was huge. It was an estate. The Holmes Estate. People still used it, Mycroft mostly, sometimes other extended family members would. Sherlock had not ventured inside it's walls for years. It held bad memories. But it was a safe place.

Mary's room was a spare room used for visitors. It was large and spacious. Very beautiful. Sherlock had also taken a spare room, instead of his old one. He wanted to distance himself from his childhood as much as possible. Understandable, for it was not a happy one. Mary was allowed to speak to John again, reassuring him she was ok and that she would see him very soon. John wanted to protect her himself, her brave soldier. She wished he could. Even though sometimes he was the one that needed protecting, saving. She knew she'd saved him. He'd told her as much.

Sherlock rarely spoke while they stayed at the estate. Mostly grunts and head nods. She wanted him to talk, but he maintained he had nothing to say. He wanted this to all be over, Moran to be dead and everything to go back to normal. Except life wasn't as easy as that. Things may get worse before they get better, or not at all. He knew that better than most people.

* * *

Sometimes she would sit up listen to Sherlock murmur and whimper in his sleep, he was loud enough that she could hear him from her room, which was opposite his. She wanted nothing more than to comfort him, but he wouldn't allow it. But it was so hard to sit in bed and listen to the man break from the other side of the hallway. She was still horrified at the notion that he could still have been lost inside his own mind. Would John have been told? What would his reaction be? He'd probably insist on caring for Sherlock himself. He would try and draw out the detective any way he could. In the end he had, sort of. Sherlock had recovered, but some things remained unchanged.

He was terribly quiet. Somewhat shy and amazingly soft spoken. He was rarely rude but very grumpy, all traces of his arrogance seemed to no longer exist, but he was incredibly stubborn. He had nightmares almost every night and flinched sometimes if you tried to touch him. He didn't liked the dark nor small spaces. He was a very different man to the one that used to run around London with John. At least those were her deductions.

* * *

She knocked on his bedroom door and entered without waiting for answer. She knew he wouldn't give one. He was sitting on the window seat, stroking Milton, watching the stars begin to come out. Mary sat down next to him.

"Didn't think you would be a stargazer. John always made it sound as if you hated the solar system and space." He shrugged, his eyes never leaving the night sky.

"Things are different when you don't get to look at something for a long length of time. When you don't get to look at anything at all. I used to never care about the stars, I could appreciate them but now, I can't stop looking at them. They're so bright." It was the most he'd said all week.

"My father and I used to go out on summer nights and just watch the stars come out. He knew all the constellations. It was wonderful." She smiled sadly.

"My father couldn't care less about spending time with me. Too busy. Both my parents were."

"That's horrible." He shrugged and grunted and went back to watching the shining stars. Mary knew she would get nothing else out of him tonight and just sat there with him and watched. And hoped that soon she could see her lover again and reunite him with one he had lost long ago. Together they would heal the detective. That wasn't wishful thinking was it?


	15. Revelations

Milton by now had pretty much gotten himself into as much trouble as a small kitten could in one day. He'd fallen into a flower pot and then somehow into a washing machine. Luckily it was turned off. But he cried and cried until he was let out. Then he discovered his food on the bench, found some way to get onto said bench, knock the food all over the floor and feed himself. The cheeky kitten then attempted to bribe Mary with rubs and purrs for more food and succeeded. He had, as Molly liked to call it, the sillies.

Mary had her own blog, much like John. Milton had decided that he wished to help her write so jumped onto the keyboard and played with the keys. Mary at first thought it was very cute but he somehow erased everything she'd written and shut down the computer. He ran off before she could scold him. Finally he crawled into an empty tissue box and stuck out his paw through the hole. Swiping at everyone who went past. He had a full, rich day. And was of course in a lot of trouble. But no one was game to get him out of the tissue box, those who tried ended up with scratches. Sherlock finally picked up the box, pulled out the kitten and scolded him. Mary hid her smile, Milton was adorable but Sherlock was equally so when playing with Milton. It was a whole new side of him she had never heard of. She wondered if she was the first to see it.

Now that the kitten was taken care of, she plucked up the courage to ask something that had been bugging her for a long time.

* * *

"Sherlock? You told me you were Normund, did you plan to actually come and visit? Because we were waiting for you...we had everything ready." The detective nodded from his place on the couch, petting Milton until he calmed down. Of course he'd planned to. He'd wanted to visit before he saw Moriarty. Mary looked at him with a dubious expression.

"Of course I did. I thought I was going to..." He broke off, not willing to say it.

"To?"

"Die." He whispered. _Oh. Oh! Oh the poor man._

"What do you mean?"

"Moriarty. He wanted to meet me, one last time. He'd threatened everyone, so I wasn't able to inform them. So I thought, perhaps if I could see John one last time, I wouldn't die with such regret and..and loneliness. But then Moriarty threatened you and John so I was unable to. I just had to leave." Oh the dear man. She couldn't imagine how much pain that would have brought him. Thinking he wouldn't see his friends ever again, not being able to even say goodbye. It was a horrible thought.

"John was so distraught when he thought something had happened to Normund. He blamed himself." Sherlock closed his eyes.  _John, I'm so sorry._ Yet another reason why it was perhaps best to not reveal himself to his best friend. Yes, he may eventually forgive Sherlock for faking his death, but impersonating strangers? Hurting John all over again? That would be harder to explain and to forgive. And Sherlock wasn't very good when it came to explaining feelings and emotions. That skill was rusty and barely used.

"I didn't want...I mean, that was never my intention. I just, just wanted to be able to say goodbye." Just in case. _I half hoped that maybe he would come after me.._

"Did you really plan on dying?"

"No. I had a plan, but like last time, there was a chance that it wouldn't work. It almost didn't. I... nearly died. Again."  _I have got to stop doing that.._

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"  _It's alright. I'm here._

"Not really, but it couldn't hurt I suppose. We met, me and Moriarty, at the Reichenbach Falls." Mary gasped, she knew all about the name Reichenbach from John. Of course, where else would they meet?

"We fought and..we fell." Another gasp. He fell off the Reichenbach Falls? How on Earth did he survive?

"There was a bridge. It saved our lives but then we continued fighting. And I don't remember much after that. Mycroft said he found me at the bottom of the falls, in the snow. Bleeding. Broken. He thought I was dead. Again." Mary felt for his brother. Three times he had thought he'd lost and failed his sibling. Three times he was lucky, he was wrong. But still, that sort of thing can cut deeply.

"I upset him. He thought he'd been too late to save me, again. I remember coming to in the hospital. High on drugs I think. Then everything went blurry till we headed home. And, well I spent the next few weeks recovering."  _Not sure if I am fully recovered yet. Or if I ever will be..._

"I see." Do you?

Mary fiddled with the glass of wine in her hands. "Did you ever think about telling him? John I mean."

"I knew who you meant. And yes, of course I did. In fact, I did tell him." There was the slightest hint of a smug smirk at the corner of his lips, but it was gone in an instant.  _I did tell him, but he didn't see it._  Perhaps that was for the best. _He would have only come after me if he had._  And life wasn't safe. Mary had a look of confusion on her face. Wait, he told him? But then surely John would have told her. She was certain that he still thought Sherlock dead. Sherlock caught the bemused expression and decided to explain.

"You see, he read Sigerson's blog didn't he? I told him on there."

"..But then, why didn't he say anything? Unless he didn't see your message.."

"I suspect he didn't. But I felt better for writing it."  _It was all I could do._

"I don't understand. Why didn't he see your message?"

"Because I disguised it. I didn't want others seeing it. Just him. Admittedly I thought about telling him in email. But I feared that I was being monitored and that John would come after me if I did. Look, I'll show you." He took her laptop and opened up his/Normund's blog and skipped back several blog posts. Sherlock placed it in front of her and told her to look at the first post on that page. It said:

_Journeying across Europe does have it's perks, I get to see so many beautiful places that other's do not, I get to share in customs and rituals that many may have never heard of before. On the other hand it has it's downfalls, a few of which I have already suffered. Honestly, I expected for my first injury to occur somewhat earlier in my travels, so breaking my leg after loosing my footing was not a complete surprise. Now I must ensure to take better care of why I am placing my feet in the future, I assure you all however that I am fine and recovering well, thank you for the concern._

Mary shook her head. She still didn't get it. She could hear Sherlock's sigh and smiled. Obviously she was missing something he thought was incredibly obvious. Well then he better tell her soon because she could see no message to John.

"Mind explaining? I don't see it."  _Of course you don't. I thought you were smart._.

"Look at the first letter of each sentence." It's so obvious!

"Oh. Ok." Let's see so the first was a J and then and O, the third was an H...oh my god. J O H N. John. It spelt John! How on earth did she miss that?

"It says John!" Yes, clearly.

"Now do the next one. The second sentence is a word however, not a single letter."  _I didn't want to arouse suspicion._

_I decided to give you all another update, I have finally arrived in Berlin and am still recovering from my broken leg, which is happily on the mend. Am going to be heading towards the Bavarian Mountains once the local doctor's say I'm fit to go hiking again, hopefully that is soon, I am terribly bored._

"I AM. I am!" John, I am. Oh Sherlock. You really did tell him didn't you?

"And the next."

" S H E R L O C K. Well, that's self explanatory."

"Keep going."

"Let me guess the next one is H O L M E S?"

"...Yes"  _You see I did tell him. I had to._

"He never realised that his best friend was trying to reach out to him. Sherlock...I.. I wish he had. So many times I've had to comfort him, hug him, because he was so distraught. I've told you this before but he used to wake up screaming your name or just in tears. Because in his dreams he saw your ghost. And he blamed himself for your death and for the last words he spoke to you, face to face."

"It was never his fault though. And I forgave him for that." John, why would you blame yourself?

"You told him a lie before you fell. That has haunted him for so long. Why did you lie to him Sherlock? If you knew there was a chance you wouldn't survive, why lie? It broke his heart."

"I thought that he would move on easier, if he thought me a fraud. A fake." He spat out that distasteful word.

"Oh Sherlock, didn't you realise that would never happen?"  _I do know. That's what makes everything so hard._

"I thought he would believe me. I underestimated his loyalty. I will never do so again."  _If I have the chance._

Neither spoke for several minutes, the awkward silence being interrupted by a yawning kitten. Mary chuckled and lifted him off his place on the couch. He purred and tried to look down her blouse. She gave him a small tap on the head.

"Get your nose out of there, naughty little thing. You know he's been tearing around the estate all day. You need to teach him manners and a set of rules..what am I saying. You don't even know those things." Sherlock very nearly chuckled himself. He took the kitten out of her hands and held him against his chest.

"He is normally well behaved. He is just over excited. And should be resting. As I will do myself." Sherlock stood and nodded at Mary and limped out of the room.

That was the other thing that was bugging her, why did he limp?


	16. Painful Reminders

There were a lot of things about Sherlock Holmes that irked Mary Morstan. It wasn't just the different personality. She supposed if she had actually known him before he "died" that it might bother her even more. The fact that he often ignored not only her but everyone in the building was very annoying and frankly, quite childish. The fact that he barely ate and barely slept was cause for concern. Although if she put food in front of him and glared for about ten minutes he would normally eat everything on the plate. Those were all facets of "Old Sherlock". Old Sherlock rarely peeked through New Sherlock. Occasionally Mary might catch a tiny smirk or lopsided smile. That was Old Sherlock. New Sherlock never smiled. Never laughed either. Mary didn't like New Sherlock. But what really irked her right now, was the fact that he limped.

Some days were worse than others. Some days his limp was incredibly noticeable and painful to watch. He would often look as confused as she felt when he would wobble over and have to use the wall as support. But then there were other times where you barely noticed it at all. It reminded her strongly of her darling John. His own limp would vary from slight to him needing to use the cane. Perhaps it was why Sherlock preferred to stay in one place for most of the day. She knew he had fallen from a waterfall but surely any injuries would be healed by now. Was it? Could it be?

Psychosomatic?

* * *

Strange as it may seem, John's week and a bit had actually semi-cured his own limp. He supposed it was the possibly of danger. The jumping from safe house to safe house. Just a whiff of adventure. He hadn't used his cane for five days now. It hadn't gone unnoticed by Mycroft but the bastard had kindly not mentioned it to John himself. Who of course still worried a great deal about Mary. He really didn't want to lose someone else he deeply cared about. One was enough. One was painful enough. John wanted nothing more than to be by her side, protecting her and taking out who ever was trying to kill them.

But he was stuck here, in some stupid sea-side cottage, with Mycroft Holmes. How thrilling. All the man did was drink tea and do paperwork. Occasionally he would leave the room and talk on his phone. John always tried to eavesdrop but never heard anything useful or interesting. He desperately hoped he didn't have to put up with this or him for very much longer. How long did it take to catch a gang of assassins anyway?

* * *

No one ever tells him anything.

It's been over a week and he has heard no news on how John and Mary are faring. All he knows is that they were spirited away to safety by Mycroft's people and has heard nothing since. Lestrade remained concerned for John's health and well being, as well as Mary's. He only hoped Mycroft was doing everything he could to keep them out of harm's way, and that they would be able to return back to life in London soon. The DI was still annoyed that no one had bloody told him anything since they were "kidnapped". He didn't ask for much. Just a hello, we're ok, would be nice. Even a text. But no, nothing.

Some government official was going to get a good talking to the next time Greg saw them.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

"Sherlock..."

"Sherlock will you stop ignoring me? It's very annoying. And extremely childish."

"No." Piss off.

"Please, I need to ask you something."

"Is it important?" He didn't bother turning around.

"Well it depends on your definition of impor-..."

"No." Sherlock rudely interrupted, still not budging from his place on the couch.

"Oh come on! Really! I am concerned about your well being but all you can do is just ignore me and sulk on the couch!"

"I'm not sulking."  _I just don't want to talk to you or see your face. Wait.._  "Concerned?"

"Yes! Your leg.. is it alright?" Crap.

"Yes it's fine! Are we done? Good."

"No we are not done! Some days you limp more noticeably than others. I wondered..well see it reminds me of John."

"So what?"  _Don't say it. Don't say it._

"Is it psychosomatic?"  _You said it. Stupid woman._  Sherlock finally turned and glared at her. He hated any attention brought to that leg and his strange limp. It had started shortly after being rescued from that Chinese hellhole. He had notions on why but not how to get rid of it. He approached everything from a logical and rational viewpoint but his body did not. It was incredibly infuriating and slightly worrying.

"I don't know and I don't care. Please cease your pointless prattle."  _Ah, Old Sherlock has raised his head and bared his teeth_. Mary was not fazed. She'd dealt with rudeness from him enough this pass week to not let his words sting her heart. He was scared, that's why he didn't want to talk about it. He probably had no idea why he kept limping. Still she was curious..

"What did you do to it?"  _Yes, it's all my fault. Everything is always my fault._

"It's none of your business. Please leave me alone. Is that so much to ask?"  _God, really. Shut up._

"Just tell me and I'll leave you alone." Fine, I'll tell you. And you'll regret ever asking.

"You really wanna know?" He made a face and removed one of his socks, thrusting his foot in her face. She wrinkled her nose and closed her eyes for a few seconds.

"Moriarty branded the bottom of my foot and for reasons unknown I keep limping on it. Ok? Happy now?" Mary felt her stomach drop. There was an ugly, painful brand on the sole of Sherlock's foot. Someone had branded him, like he was an animal. Not a human being. That was sick! Oh God. Oh, dear Sherlock. Again she had that urge to hug him, this time she tried to act on it but the sleuth shied away and limped out of the room, his eyes never leaving hers. Distrustful, fearful? Of what?

And his eyes. They radiated so much pain and sorrow.  _Oh please let this all be over so John can heal you._  This will break John though.  _Oh I don't know what to do_! She placed her head in her hands and sobbed. There had to be a way to make everything all better. Or was that unrealistic?


	17. Betrayal

Molly was worried. It had been so long since her three friends had gone into protective custody. And although she was allowed to visit one of them, the other two were so far away. She had only seen John a few times. But she couldn't bring herself to see him often, after all, his room was perilously close to Sherlock's, though the man was not currently in there. Every time she saw John she was afraid his sad or angry expression would cause her to break her promise and reveal Sherlock's secret. But John noticed Molly's absence he chose to not say anything.

"Are you ok John? You keep, um, staring off into the distance." She tried to give him a reassuring smile, everything will be fine, but it didn't feel sincere. What if everything was not fine?

"Just worried Molly. Just worried." He returned the smile but it didn't reach his eyes. She reached over to hold his hand for a second.

"She'll be fine John. Mycroft said she was with his best agent." Though Sherlock would probably hate being called that. Or maybe he wouldn't mind now, who knows? He's changed so much...

"I know, I know. It's just, I love her Molly. But, people I love, whether it's romantic or deep friendship, they just don't seem to hang around do they?"  _Oh John. I worry too, I worry that Sherlock will do everything to protect Mary and suffer for it. To make you happy._

"Oh John. She'll be back soon. And everything can go back to normal." In more ways than one.

"One can only hope."

"Sometimes you just have to have faith. Faith in the person protecting her. I know he will do whatever it takes to keep her out of harms way." _I know you believe in him John._

"You know him?"

"We've met. He's nice, in a quiet sort of way." John nodded and finished off his tea.

"I'm going to see Mycroft about talking to her again. Thanks Molly."

"No problem!"  _I just wish I could do more..._

* * *

They'd received a message in the late afternoon. Rather only Sherlock received it but it he passed it onto Mary and three of the bodyguards. Pack and get ready to leave first thing in the morning, one of the bodyguards was undercover, a mole. One of them worked for Moran. Mycroft had narrowed it down to two but did not wish to arouse suspicion. Under the guise of going to bed, the small group quietly packed, Milton slept soundly in a small cat carrier. Mary and Sherlock went to sleep, feeling safe that the remaining bodyguards would keep them protected from the one bad egg.

But it was a fools hope.

In the early morning a gun shot pierced the air, waking both Mary and Sherlock. Sherlock sat bolt upright to see two of the other men struggling in front of him. One trying to protect him, the other trying to kill him. The guns were safely now out of reach, but blood seeped out from a wound on one man's thigh. Sherlock heard the sound of metal hitting flesh and moved to stand but the killer suddenly flew at him, knocking him back onto the bed and digging the dagger deep into his arm. Sherlock attempted to cry out but the killer's other hand moved towards his throat, soon both met around his neck and he held tight. The sleuth struggled against his grasp, gasping, kicking but it was useless.

Just as the black spots began to dance across his eyes, there was a loud clang. His attacker fell to the floor, unconscious. Mary stood behind him, panting, a frying pan in her hands and then she rushed to Sherlock's side.

"Oh you're hurt! Let me help you up."

She gently pulled him to a sitting position and rubbed his back until he had caught his breath. The remaining men eventually rushed into his room, where they'd been he didn't know, but was sure they would receive an earful later. Once the bodies were dealt with and the mole swiftly shot, the groups luggage and Milton's carrier were hurled into the jeep. Mary wrapped Sherlock's arm around her shoulder and pulled him up. He leaned heavily against her as they both slowly made their way to the car and climbed in.

* * *

Sherlock lay along the back seat, Mary lifted his head and placed it in her lap. As the car sped away she borrowed a swiss army knife from one of their guards and ripped the ends of her nightie off, wrapping it around the bleeding wound on his arm. He groaned, trying to curl up, his good arm against his chest. She whispered soothing whispers and stroked his hair.

"Oh Sherlock, always getting yourself into trouble. What ever will I do with you?" Sherlock grimaced and resisted the desire to roll his eyes, instead clenching them shut.

"'m fine."

"Oh of course you are. You were only stabbed, strangled and probably bruised. You're lucky I was there to save you."  _I could have saved myself..._

"I suppose I should say thank you. Thats what people do, isn't it?"

"Don't play stupid Sherlock, it doesn't suit you. Now you just rest, we'll be at the other safe house soon."

* * *

And they were, thankfully because Sherlock definitely needed medical attention. The detective managed to limp out under his own power and into the safe house, down into a much smaller bunker. Mary had him sit on a chair in the kitchen while she searched for a first aid kit. It was hidden in the laundry. She brought it back with her, placing it on the table and took out a pair of scissors.

"I'm going to have to cut your shirt off Sherlock."

"No." No, you'll see..

"It's not a question, it has to happen."

"No, no. No way. Think of another solution." You can't see, you're not allowed!

"You know there isn't one. You have other t-shirts Sherlock, surely." What was he so worked up about? She didn't speak again and began to cut at the fabric, at first her patient resisted but realised it was futile and sat pouting and glaring. As the fabric fell in pieces on the floor, she soon understood why he had wanted to keep his shirt on in the first place.

His back was covered in scars.

Some fading, some still raised and angry. There were whip scars, where leather had dug deep into the flesh then ripping it away. There were burn scars, where the skin had been burnt until the raw skin underneath peaked through, the scars had shrunk but would still cause him some pain. Then there were the little scars, where someone had taken a knife and just cut into him here and there, letting him bleed little by little until his skin must have resembled swiss cheese. These ones were the most healed. It was horrible and painful to look at. So she didn't and set to work wrapping his ribs and tending to his arm. She used an old sheet and tore it to shreds to create a make shift sling. Sherlock pulled gently on a fresh tshirt and she tied up the ends of the sling and sat back.

"I'm sorry.."  _I didn't know._

"Are you? You sure you aren't disgusted, repulsed? Doesn't it repel you?" _I'm more of a freak now then I ever was._

"Oh Sherlock, of course not. I'm more disgusted by the people who did those things to you. It must have hurt a great deal."

"More than you can possibly imagine."

"I wish I could do something to make them go away.." No one should have had to suffer like that..

"Well you can't, no one can. They're there forever. Reminders I've what i've had to sacrifice..."  _Each whip, cut, burn taking away a piece of me away..._

"Sherlock.."

"I'm going back to sleep. See you in the morning..." He turned to leave before stopping, his back still facing her.

"Thank you." And he headed to his new bedroom.


	18. Good News and Bad Ideas

Moran sipped his, now freezing cold, tea and stared at the monitors. No sign of Holmes. But it was confirmed he was alive. It had been hard to ascertain high above the Falls. Jim was dead, that was certain. But Holmes... Moran hadn't been sure until his mole reported back and informed him. Good. He could go after Holmes first and then take down his friends. Sure they were innocent, but Sebastian would followed his employer's last wish to the letter. Kill them all. Don't leave a single one. A difficult job, but Moran liked a challenge.

He'd leave little Miss Morstan and John Watson alone for now, he had no doubt that his pathetic guns for hire would squawk to high heaven about this fact. They had been instructed to and paid handsomely for it. The happy couple would go home, Holmes would hopefully try and reveal himself and Moran could strike. Or...perhaps if he incapacitated one or all of them, it would be much easier pickings.

Now there was an idea...

* * *

John thumbed through his new album, his and Mary's. It wasn't as thick yet as the one from Mrs Hudson, but it was getting there. Plenty of room for wedding photos too. If it came to that. If...if they both survived this. God, was she ok? Not that he believed Mycroft would lie to him about something like that, but was she really alright? John knew they've had to move, she better be safe and sound. One of John's greatest fears was losing her. He'd already lost someone close to home, another would surely shatter his healing heart to smithereens.

The pain he'd felt over losing his best friend was something he'd never felt before. He'd lost mates in war but somehow, that was expected. It was war after all. But watching his best friend plummet to his death, in an effort to save to people he cared about, that hurt so much worse. He'd been left with a gaping whole in his chest that nothing seemed to fill. An empty, aching loneliness that refused to go away.

Until Mary. She'd healed him, she banished the loneliness. She understood his pain and loved the devotion he had to his fallen friend's memory. Without her, where would he be now? Would he still be miserable? Would he have found someone else? Would he have ended up with a bullet in his head? Maybe not, he hadn't been suicidal, but without her, life might have been very different. This was why he hoped she was alright. That she would come home safely.

He couldn't afford to lose someone else he loved.

* * *

"Check mate."

"That's six times in a row now...how are you doing that?"

"Practice, knowledge. I'm surprised you are still playing. Most people give up after one game. Though one threw the board in my face..."  _That really hurt._

"There's nothing else to do. Unless you want to watch Four Weddings and A Funeral again."  _Eugh._

"God no. Once was enough. No...once was too many times. Horrible movie."  _Stupid, predictable, dull._

"Well then what do you suggest?"

"I could ring up Mycroft and bother him for awhile."

"That didn't go so well last time."  _That's the understatement of the year._

"Yes well he was pissed off that there had been a mole in his organisation that nearly killed me. It also means Moran probably knows where we are and that I'm alive again." _I'll have to hide elsewhere._

Mary sighed and stood, taking her empty teacup to the sink and rinsing out the remaining contents. Hopefully they'd get to go home soon. Both of them were getting Cabin Fever and she dreaded the day when Sherlock's was a full blown case. He'd already exploded a six pack out of boredom. There might be nothing left of the safe house if something didn't happen soon.

* * *

Mary's wish appeared to have been granted, three days later. Mycroft called late that night to inform them they could return home. All of Moran's snipers had been captured. They all claimed the real target was Sherlock himself, not Mary or John. Mary had been ecstatic, Sherlock however dreaded returning. Either he stayed in hiding until they caught Moran or he went out into London and attempt to draw the Sniper out. Both were not very enjoyable outcomes.

There was also the decision on whether or not to tell John. Mary promised she wouldn't but begged him to reconsider. But Sherlock was far too stubborn, as usual and refused. Too risky he said, too dangerous. Besides he was still of the idea that John would not forgive him. The detective had confided in her the idea of getting his brother to find him a nice flat not far from NSY and he'd stay there instead of returning to Baker Street. It was an idea he refused to give up. Nothing Mary said would change his mind.

She zipped up her suitcase and placed it on the floor. They'd leave tomorrow. She'd see her John tomorrow. He was probably fretting and growling at Sherlock's brother until his throat was sore, the dear, old soldier. Mary pulled on her nightgown and climbed into bed. Her rest was easy and her dreams pleasant.

* * *

They got up early, Sherlock was as grumpy as ever and barely awake. He refused to get out of his pyjamas and dressing gown. Mary pressed a warm cup of coffee in his hands but he still scowled. Mary smiled back and set about making a quick breakfast, cheerfully whistling. Getting louder and louder to cover the groans emitting from the grumpy, sleepy, messy-haired detective.

Milton took this as a challenge.

* * *

An hour later everyone was bundled into the back of the jeep, Sherlock was hidden under a pile of blankets, only the tops of his now red curls were able to be seen. He'd made her dye them the night before. Something she did not want to repeat ever again. Milton was in his carrier, crying. He didn't like cars. They moved around too much and the mowing of the cows that watched them from the sides of the road, scared him. The ride to London was peaceful besides Milton's pathetic crying.

That was until the car approaching them swerve into their lane, forced them off the road and into a tree.


	19. Together Again

"Where is she? God damn it! Mary Morstan! Which room is she in? Tell me!"  _Don't make me shoot you._

"Sir you need to calm down."  _Right, because there's nothing to worry about. Right? Wrong!_

"I will not fucking calm down! The love of my life is lying unconscious somewhere in this hospital! Now tell me where she is!" He slammed his fist onto the desk, not even wincing as pain shot through his fist.

"Room 37 but you can't go in ther- Sir. Sir!"  _Try and stop me._

When John had heard that his darling Mary was finally returning home to him, he'd been estatic, almost beside himself. He couldn't wait to see her again and hold her in his arms. But then the awful news came, she'd been in a car accident on the way back to London. Now that was just cruel. It seemed that those who had been after her and John weren't all gone after all. Mycroft said that they had been all taken out or arrested, but this maniac who'd hired them, just hired new ones. If Mycroft hadn't already arrested them, John would have taken them out himself. Now he just wished to beat the living daylights out of them.

Why did this have to keep happening? Couldn't people just leave him and the people who cared about alone? First he looses his best friend, then he himself had been in a hit and run accident, and now this. Was he not meant to have a happy life? And what if he lost Mary? What then? Two of the people who he'd cared about most in the world would be gone and he'd be all alone again, back to the start. He didn't voice these concerns to anybody and he sure as hell wasn't going to tell the joke of a therapist. He just kept on running until he reached room 37 and spotted a familiar figure outside her room.

Mycroft.

* * *

He had some nerve showing up here. This was all partly his fault. Sure he'd had good intentions, but he'd sworn an oath to keep her safe and failed.

"Is she alright? Is she ok? If you lie to me, so help me I'll shove the umbrella of yours, so far up you'll start singing."  _Don't think I won't do it._

"She is fine. Asleep right now but her injuries are minor." John released a breath and half collapsed against the wall.

"They will pay. Do not worry about that. They will pay. Now go in and see her." John didn't need telling, he was already half-way through the door.

His Mary was hooked up to a few machines, she had a small cut on one cheek and a pale bruise on her temple, but they were the only evidence she had been in an accident. The rest was hidden under sheets and a light pink blanket. He reached forward and clasped her hand in his own, running his finger over hers. She looked happy and peaceful. John just wanted to take her in his arms and never let go. He was so glad they were back together, but at what price?

* * *

Two pale eyes opened and focussed on John. The doctor smiled as widely as possible.

"Hey darling. How do you feel?"

"John." She said with such warmth and affection. "I'm ok. Sore, but ok. So quit worrying."  _Oh you know me too well Mary._

"I wish I could, but it's unavoidable. I'm just glad you're back." He held her hand tighter, but Mary looked troubled.

"Whats the matter?"

"The other men in the car with me, do you know what happened to them?" John shook his head, he knew the driver had been killed but wasn't aware of the fate of the others. Though he was thankful they had taken good care of his Mary.

"Could you find out please?" She started to tear up and John's concern grew. She must have forged a friendship with one or all of them. Mary made friends so easily. He had to do something to ease her worrying.

"Ill ask Mycroft ok?" She nodded, thankful.

"Could you ask him now? I'm sorry honey, but I have to know." John leaned forward and kissed the bruise on her forehead.

"If it helps, I'll ask him right now." He squeezed her hand again, let go and left the room.

* * *

Mycroft was seated on a hard chair outside the room, Anthea, or whatever her name was today, stood beside him playing on her phone. He looked up, surprised to see John leave Mary's room so soon, but could guess as to why he had. Mycroft handed his mug of coffee to his assistant and dismissed her, gesturing for John to sit down in one of the seats next to him.

"You have questions."

"Actually, Mary does. She, uh, wants to know what happened to the other people in the car." Mycroft nodded.

"The driver died, as you know, instantly, the others in the car survived but are in another hospital, for safety reasons." John sighed in relief.

"That's good to know. Thanks Mycroft." The doctor stood, about to go back into Mary's room.

"John, wait.."

"Hm?" He turned to look at Mycroft, who was now standing, looking apprehensive. John's brow furrowed. "What is it?"

"What do you know about Sebastian Moran?"


	20. Hospital

John was taken aback. How long had it been since he'd heard that name. Years perhaps. Sebastian Moran, an old army comrade. But what did he have to do with all this? Surely he wasn't responsible. John nodded to the elder Holmes.

"Yes the name rings a bell. But what about him?"

"I think it rings more than just a bell, Doctor Watson, I am sure I did not miss that flicker of recognition pass through your eyes."

"Whatever. I didn't know him all that well. Just a fellow solider really. Saved my life actually. But what does he have to do with me and Mary?"  _I'd be dead if not for him._

"Because, and I am sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but he is the one who is responsible for all of this, Doctor Watson. This is all his doing. Whether it's revenge, an old order, who knows. But everything points to him. Ex- Colonel Sebastian Moran."

John shook his head. This couldn't be right. But it was coming from Mycroft, wasn't he always correct? Always so sure? He must make mistakes. Sometimes. Sebastian Moran was an honourable man, a good man. Not a gun for hire, a sniper, a murderer. Though he had always been the best marksmen John had ever known. It was possible but highly improbable. The Moran John knew was no cold-blooded killer.

"You're wrong. He isn't like that. He wouldn't do something like this. He was a good man when I knew him." You must be wrong.

"He has changed. People do. Even his appearance. It was he you saw in the car that night, his face in that photograph I showed you so long ago. I assure you it was he who shot me. I am sorry John, but if you know any of his weaknesses, his faults and flaws, it will be invaluable information. There are innocent lives at stake."

That hit John where it hurt. Innocent lives, protecting the innocents. Wasn't that what he swore to do all those years ago? It changed slightly upon return. Protect Sherlock, now he didn't need John's protection, but Mary did. And Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Anna. If it was Moran, John had an obligation to help deal with him, didn't he? The doctor ran a hand through his short brown hair, Mary always likened it to a hedgehog's spikes. He let out a breath and paced back and forth before finally reaching a decision.

"Gambling. That's his biggest weakness. Never could resist a game of chance. He was bloody good at it too. If he'll slip up, it will be over a game."

Anthea looked over at her boss and quickly jotted this all down on a slim, futuristic looking palm pilot. Mycroft nodded, John could see the ideas and gears whirring though his computer like brain.

"Of course. So obvious. Thank you John, this will be very helpful. Trust me when I say you and Miss Mary are safe now. I promise."

John shrugged and looked dubious. "Forgive me if I don't take your word for it. Speaking of Mary I better get back."

Mycroft smiled wolfishly and nodded again.

"I won't keep you John. By the way, I hope she says yes. Goodbye Doctor Watson."

Wait, how did he know..? Never mind. Damn Holmes'. John rolled his eyes at Mycroft's back and headed into Mary's room once more to give her the good news.

* * *

Mycroft could hear a loud purring when he finally reached the private hospital room door. It sounded like a motor. He smiled, pushing opened the blue door and creeping inside. A pale, lithe figure lay on a raised bed, covered in white blankets. He wore blue monogramed pyjamas, a gift from Aunt Sophia, but it hung loose on his thin frame. Bright red curls, rested on fluffy white pillows. Sherlock was fast asleep.

However according to the hospital, it was not Sherlock Holmes sleeping in that bed, but "Charles Twist". And it had taken a lot of effort to allow Milton into, 'Charles'' room. The hospital still wasn't happy with it, but he'd promised a generous donation in return for allowing the animal. And they did allow animals from time to time, he suspected they just didn't like him poking his nose where it didn't belong but deserved to be.

It seemed to do both the kitten and his owner some good though. He wasn't as pale as he had been the day before. And Milton was calmer and happier. Sherlock needed healing again. Broken leg, bruised ribs, concussion, fractured wrist, really after all this was over, Mycroft intended to lock his brother up in a room filled with fluffy white pillows and soft things until he was sure he'd be able to take care of himself properly for once.

The government official brushed away a stray red lock from the white bandage that circled his little brother's temple and sat down beside him.

"I swear I will have several grey hairs when this is all said and done, dear brother. Fortunately I will dye in a hair that dares to do so. But you didn't hear that from me." It was probably good that he was sleeping, that had been good blackmail fodder. Not that Sherlock ever did that anymore. Ah the good old days. How he missed them. Tremendously.

"Just been to see John and his Mary. She's well, he's furious. I was right, he knows the sniper, Sherlock. I am gravely concerned but he proved to have some interesting information that may be of some use. So why don't you stop this nonsense and get yourself better so we can take down this..this bastard, once and for all"

Sherlock stirred but didn't wake up. He twitched occasionally, as if dreaming. Probably about an old case or an old chase.

"Sweet dreams little brother. I will take Milton know before the nurses do, they are giving me the evil eye once again. Some of them really try my patience!" He stood picking up the protesting kitten and tucking him under his arm.

"Sleep well."


	21. Hospital Continued

Mary was pleased to hear John news, although he left out the part about his old friend Moran. He didn't want her to worry anymore than she should. She was so oddly and hugely relieved that John found himself confused and concerned. But she refused to tell him anything. Complained that Mycroft had sworn her to secrecy to keep the men and herself, safe. The doctor was suspicious but didn't press the matter. She was safe and happy and thats all he really cared about.

"I'm sorry John."  _I wish I could tell you. I really, really do._

"Right, right, it's alright Mary."

"You seem, rattled John. Is everything ok?"

"Yes, just a bit stressed thats all. Sorry love. I've just been so worried about you." He leaned down and pressed his lips against her cheek and tightly held her hand.

"Well I'm alright dear."

"I know. That's brilliant, just focus on getting better. It's your turn to make spaghetti remember?" His eyes lit up as he teased her.

"Cheeky bastard."

* * *

When Sherlock awoke the next morning, he found that his room was once again filled with hideous flowers, get well cards and a large plush otter. God why? Of all things..an otter? He supposed he ought to put up with it this time. They meant "well". Whatever that meant. And for some reason the otter was growing on him.

"I see you are back with us then,  _Charlie_." Mycroft's crisp, elegant voice sounded from the hallway located to his left. Wonderful. Wait Charlie? Oh, alias. Of course.

"Yes, of course...oh! Mary is?" _I'm not worried, merely curious._

"Fine. Just fine. Happy to see John again."

"John?" Yes I am sure she would be. They're very close. Too close.

"He plans to ask her to marry him." WHAT? No. No, no, no, no, a huge pile of negatives. He can't get married! The two of them could never go on cases again or adventures. He'd want to spend time with  _her._  Have an ordinary life, an ordinary job with a...well ok she wasn't ordinary. But John wasn't supposed to fall in love and get married! What was Sherlock supposed to do without him?

 _Oh but John you are anything but ordinary. Please don't do this, don't go and settle for an average life. But...maybe you should. Maybe you'd be happier. Safer._  Sherlock sighed.

"Finished your internal musings, dear brother?"

"What? No, I mean yes. I mean, good for him." Not.

"I'm sure if he knew, he'd be thrilled to have your blessing." Mycroft's brow furrowed at Sherlock's seemingly quiet acceptance and moved to sit down next to him, picking up the plush otter as he went past. It brought a smile to his other wise sour expression.

"From Molly. She said it reminded her of you."

"I remind her of an otter?" That silly girl.

"Well I believe Miss Adler may have slightly influenced her." Statistically more likely, thought Sherlock.

"I see and the flowers? Are they necessary?"

"I think they brighten up the place, personally. I am not removing them, Sherlock. They make this room smell wonderful."

Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes or pretend to gag like he might have once upon a time. Fine they could stay. They did brighten up an other wise bland and sterile room.

"Well I better go, I should check on Miss Mary and John. So much legwork these days Sherlock. I must have lost even more weight by now." He expected or hoped for some sort of witty remark or comment but received nothing.

"Good for you Mycroft." Not bloody likely.

Mycroft frowned again, wishing for more or another answer. Still nothing. A flash of disappoint crossed his face when he didn't receive it.

"Yes, quite. Well, see you soon. Get better quickly Sherlock." No thanks Mycroft.

* * *

"Breathe, just breathe."

"Don't you bloody tell me to breath, Greg Lestrade! You aren't the one in labour!" Greg paled.

"Strictly speaking neither are you. It was a false alarm so please calm down and breathe. People are staring."

"What, they've never seen a pregnant woman before? It's a hospital Greg! Say that again, I dare you." He shouldn't have said that. Bad idea. Very, very bad.

"No, no. I'm sorry. Very sorry." Very, very sorry.  _Oh God am I sorry. Please don't kill me._

"Good, now help me up." Greg did as he was told, but as soon as she was up, his phone began to ring. He didn't pick it up right away, preferring to hum absentmindedly to his football anthem until his wife slapped him over the head. Boy was she in a bad mood. And she weighed a - don't go there Greg. Do not go there. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and quickly answered the call.

"Hel-lo?"

"Greg? It's Mycroft Holmes." Of course it's you. It's always you isn't.

"Oh! Right. How's Mary and John?"

"Reunited. That is in fact why I wish to speak to you. They have been reunited, but at a cost."

"Shit."

"Mary is alright but currently in the same hospital as you and your wife. She'll recover fairly quickly however. Not to worry. Thought you ought to know."

"Wait how did you know- never mind. Anna and I will go and see them now. False alarm."

"I know." Of course you do.

"Thanks anyway. For the heads up. Glad they're back together."

"As am I. I dread to think what lengths John would have gone to if they weren't." Lestrade laughed.

"He's a stubborn, resourceful sort of bloke."

"Indeed. See you soon Inspector. Very soon." Crap.

"Look forward to it!" Not really. No offence.

They both hung up at the same time and Greg turned to look at his confused and worried wife.

"There's something I need to tell you."


	22. Secrets and Fears

It took Anna and Lestrade several minutes to find the correct room. Mary was sitting up in her bed, chatting happily to John who was eagerly listening, all ears directed to his love. He looked ecstatic to have her back. Greg didn't blame him. He couldn't begin to understand how he must have felt being separated from her. If such a thing happened to his Anna...but at least John and Mary were back together at least. And none the worse for wear, well.. mostly. Mary look bruised and battered but healthy and whole.

Anna coughed loudly, a quick way of alerting the room's occupants to their presence. John stood immediately, a smile spreading across his features. Happy to see old friends.

"Greg! Long time no see!"

"Likewise mate, good to see you back in London at last. Did you give Mycroft much trouble?"

"Of course."

"Good lad. And what about you Mary? What have you gone and done to yourself?" Mary found herself giggling at Lestrade's 'Look at me, I'm serious' face. She gave Anna an awkward hug, the other woman's belly getting in the way.

"Car accident, but I'm alright. I'm gladder still that most of the people who protected me are as well."

"Good people?"

"The very best. I was just telling John about the antics of a kitten that one of the men had brought with him. Cheeky little thing. Sadly the man was very lonely. Poor dear. Oh if you had seen him you wouldn't be able to help yourselves. You would be just as I was, trying to making him smile and laugh. Not an easy task." She looked so saddened at the man's plight. John kissed her on her forehead.

"Probably." He looked over at Anna and Lestrade, a thought suddenly springing to mind.

"What are you two doing here anyway? Did Mycroft tip you off?"  _Nosy bastard._

"Yes and no. We were here already. Thought the little one was on his way, he wasn't. The nurse says he has at least a week or so left in him."

"Oh Anna dear how are you feeling?" Mary exclaimed.

"I need rest. I'm sorry, it was wonderful to see you again. We are both very glad you are back with us. But we should head off." Greg nodded, he was tired as well and knew now not to contradict his wife.

"It's good to see you again mate. If the babe hasn't announced himself in a few days we should meet up at the pub for a pint."

"Sounds like a plan. See you then." The pair waved and left.

Mary smiled and then looked saddened. It made John's heart ache, he wished he knew what was worrying her so. It hurt him to see her so upset.

"I wish you'd tell me what's wrong. Maybe I can help."

"Oh John I wish I could, but I promised I wouldn't"  _I want to tell you._

"Why can't you?"  _What's so secret?_

"I made a promise not to. If someone told you something and made you swear not to tell anyone else, would you keep that promise?"

"Probably, but it upsets you."

"I'm just thinking about those people who protected me. I became good friends with one of them."  _Well, sort of._

John's eyes narrowed. "Define good friends."

"Oh, do I detect a note of jealousy? Never fear darling, my heart belongs to you."

"As does mine."

"Good." She pecked him on the cheek.  _Though I think that some of it still belongs to Sherlock. Even if it isn't the same as how you feel for me, part of you was missing when we met._

"Didn't Anna look radiant?"

"She looked pissed."

"John!"

"Well she did! And Greg looked like a kicked puppy. Probably said something he regretted." Mary started to giggle as that image settled in her mind.

"Yes he did, poor dear. You don't mess with a pregnant woman."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"See that you do."

* * *

"Would you stop fidgeting?"  _No. But let's see how you like being poked and prodded for hours on end, day after day._

"I would have thought you'd be used to this by now."  _Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, or isn't infuriating. Honestly you can be so thick sometimes, dear brother._

"Say something."  _No._

"Please..." Please?

"Sherlock you are worrying me, you know how I hate it when you ignore me." Sherlock sighed. He did. Mycroft would flashback to his catatonic little brother, or simply draw similarities and worry. Perhaps he should say something.

"When do I get to leave?" Mycroft brightened but hid it well.  _Why? There was no one else here._

"In a few hours. So unless you wish to for Irene and Molly to see you in your pyjamas, I suggest you change." That's actually a good idea. Irene likes to tease and Molly gets flustered or motherly. Sherlock paused, midway in getting out of bed.

"...I want a flat."

"What?"

"You heard me. You always hear me. I want a flat. Something decent, not far from the NSY or Baker St. It should have a bedroom, a study, kitchen, bathroom, living room. The lot."

"What on earth for?"

"Well. It's for...um..if I...uh. You see.." Oh great, he was flustered.  _Wonderful. Thanks brain._

"If John rejects you." _Blunt as always._

"Yes."

"Why not stay at Baker Street. He no longer lives there."

"It's far too risky, with Moran still on the loose. I won't go back there.. not yet."  _Soon._

Mycroft sighed, no matter what he said on the matter, Sherlock was steadfast in his belief that John would not forgive him. Sherlock no doubt had plans and ideas running through his head on how to catch Moran. As much as he didn't want him in harms way again, the least he could do was see that this flat was the safest one in London.

"Fine. But you stay at my place until it's ready. Understand? No running off."

"Deal."

"I hope you have a plan Sherlock." _I always have a plan Mycroft._

Mycroft wrote something down on a piece of paper and turned so Sherlock could strip and change in private. Not that he hadn't seen it all before. After all, during that hellish...time, he'd helped to feed, bathe and clothe his younger sibling. Plus he did virtually raise him.

"And what of John? Will you ever tell him of your miraculous resurrection?"

"I do not know. Maybe not at all." _Not this again, Sherlock._

"Sherlock..."

"No. No. For once, really hear me out Mycroft. I've told you this before but listen again...please." Sherlock waved his hands around, gesturing with emphasis.

"I spoke to Mary, John was deeply hurt by my death and like myself, she does not know if his reaction would be a positive or negative one. She herself punched me in the face. I can't take that risk. What if my coming back hurts him more? What if he feels I have betrayed his trust, his friendship?"

"John is a loyal, kind person. For the most part. I don't believe that he would be unhappy to see you."

"These aren't normal circumstances! Friends don't normally throw themselves off buildings in front of other friends. They don't normally watch them mourn and then set out to destroy an "evil" empire. They then don't normally return, back from the dead, changed but alive. He's my... my friend. I don't know how he will react. Who am I to stop him from having a happy, if somewhat dull life? It's what he wants." _I just don't want him hurt. Everything has been about protecting him and the others._

"Usually you'd be the first in line. But I see your point. I just think mine is better."

"You would."

"Was that a joke?"

"Don't let it go to your head." Mycroft hid his smile.

"I'll try not too. Now wait here while I fetch the nurse to make sure you can leave." _Fine. Boring though_.

"What happened to all the flowers?"  _You got rid of them, finally._

"Back home in your room. Along with the otter."  _Oh.. thanks. Just what I needed._  Just as well, he didn't plan on staying long.

"Wait here."


	23. Home

The flat was perfect. Sherlock couldn't have designed it better himself. The kitchen held a brand new chemistry set, complete with the necessary ingredients, the fridge stocked with milk. The living room's bookcase was filled with Sherlock's favourite books, some simply he read for pleasure, the others were relevant to his work. The bathroom had a large collection of medical supplies, the study held a large, mahogany desk, a brand new mac book pro, a new iphone, more books and Milton's belongings.

The bedroom was simple. A double bed with plain blue coverings and pillows, small wooden chest of drawers, two bed side tables, a shelf opposite the bed held a photo of him, John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and Molly at Christmas. Milton's bed lay against one of the walls.

"Is it satisfactory?"

"Yes, yes it's fine thank you." It's almost like home. Almost.

"Good. The walls are soundproof, the windows practically bulletproof. I expect constant communication via the secured frequency I created. Is that clear Sherlock?"

"Of course Mycroft." _I'm not stupid._

"Wonderful. Well I will let you settle in. And Sherlock, the longer you put off telling John, the angrier he will be."

"I am well aware of that Mycroft." He stood with his arms crossed waiting for his brother to leave.

"Merely reminding you. Good day little brother."

And then he was gone. It wasn't until an hour later, after unpacking, moving furniture about and feeding Milton, did he feel the crushing loneliness that came with living alone in a flat, without Mycroft, Molly or Irene. And especially without John. Was this his life now? When everything was all over, was this what he had to look forward to? Maybe getting cases from Lestrade, maybe seeing John, working cases by himself, chasing down suspects by himself. How depressing. How pathetic. He used to do all that anyway, before he met John. Before he'd changed the detective's life.

And now, he didn't think he could handle living like that, day after day. But he'd have to make do. He was after all, realistic. Sighing, Sherlock stroked Milton's head before putting his food away and making tea for himself. Did John used to make tea for two people after Sherlock 'died? Had it become too much a force of habit, that he didn't realise till he'd brought the two mugs into the living room that he suddenly remembered that his best friend was no longer there to drink his tea.

Did he ever forget that Sherlock was 'dead'? Did he wake up wondering why he couldn't hear a soulful melody on the violin? Or an explosion from the kitchen? Did he ever go down to check and wonder where the detective had gone? Only to remember that he was gone forever. Did John ever think like that? Sherlock knew he'd mourned. He'd heard about it, seen it for himself. But he knew nothing about the little things. Whether John dreamt about his death like he did about the war. Whether he cried, whether he starting talking to Sherlock and realised he wasn't there.

Or did John just push all that out of his mind, try and forget about it and move on? He wrote those books yes, but that wasn't the point. Did he still think about his best friend? Did he?

Sherlock shook his head. He shouldn't be thinking about John. He should be deleting him. The last thing he wanted to do, but the only thing he could think of that would spare him the pain of living by himself, alone except for Milton. Who was sensing his owner's mood and rubbing against his leg, mewing to be picked up and held. Which he was. He was very spoilt and got everything he wanted and more. The kitten purred as he snuggled against Sherlock's chest and settled down for a nap.

"At least I have you. You won't leave me will you Milton?" The kitten's purr increased in volume. Sherlock tried to smile at the little animal's attempt to comfort him.

"I am reduced to talking to a kitten. Wonderful."

* * *

For now his prey was out of his reach, being lured into a false sense of safety and security. But which to go after? The loving, future Mrs Watson? The loyal solider? Or the lonely, broken detective? It was clear to him which one was the easiest, but it wouldn't be the most enjoyable. The detective's older brother would make reaching him difficult and he didn't feel he'd get the same amount of satisfaction if he ended the lives of the Watsons.

Maybe it was time for a break, everything would sort itself out soon enough. The detective would seek out his friends and when he did, Moran would be ready. Until then, perhaps it was time for another sort of game.

* * *

Mary and John's transition from hospital and hotel, to home, was fairly quick. When they returned, everything was clean, the fridge was full, as was the pantry. Mrs Hudson came almost everyday with a different cooked meal, Molly and Mary constantly texted each other, John didn't know what about but sometimes it made Mary giggle and other times it made her cry. Mycroft came over once to make sure they had settled in nicely. He didn't say much, he seemed to have other things on his mind.

Mary found a rather naughty outfit on their bed the day they came home. The note simply said "Enjoy- IA". They could guess who it was from. John wondered if he should send a thank you note. Lestrade visited several times, usually to have a drink with John. Or to tell them of Anna's progress. She was going well. Lestrade said they expected the baby in a week or so. Anna said he must be waiting for something.

They slipped back into their old routines quite easily. John returned to his work. Mary worked from home for a few days before going back to teaching. John remained on edge, constantly vigilant. Mary still kept her secret, close to her heart, wishing she could tell John. Neither knew that she wouldn't have too soon. Neither could have foreseen the turn of events that were soon to come...


	24. Ronald Adair

It had been two weeks since Mary and John had returned home and since Sherlock had moved into his new flat. Molly and Irene texted him often. As did Mary for some odd reason. Mycroft never texted him. He preferred to skype. Which was an interesting experience. The last time they had skyped together had been way before Irene had joined Sherlock on his long mission to destroy Moriarty's empire. He remembered being drunk, Mycroft pissing him off and Sherlock had decided that he needed to respond by showing the camera his posterior. Not one of his best moments he had to admit. But it was a crazy time. And Mycroft had probably deserved it.

Moran seemed to have disappeared off everyone's radar. Even Mycroft's. But Sherlock was keeping a close eye on the news and he still had his Homeless Network as his eyes and ears all over the city. But his feet itched to venture off on a wild chase after this mad man. Only last night Mycroft had dropped a bombshell on him.

* * *

_"What do you mean they know each other?"_

_"Sherlock please calm down. I simply meant that they were in the military together. They fought together."_

_"Why didn't you tell me this?" This was important information! It's still important!_

_"I didn't think it relevant at the time. And I was not totally certain of the facts until Doctor Watson confirmed them."_

_"What if he seeks John out?"_

_"If that was his plan, he would have done so already. John is safe, Sherlock."_

_"You hope."_

_"I am sure."_

_"You better be." Or so help me._

* * *

After a lengthy argument with himself in his mind palace, he believed he had three options. Yes it wasn't totally necessary to alert John, but he would feel so much better knowing that John was aware that Moran was lurking around London. He could tell John and simply not reveal himself, tell John and reveal himself or not tell John at all. He could also tell Mary but then John would be wanting to know where the information had come from. He could always visit him in disguise.. that worked last time. But not as Basil. He had some stubble now and his hair was still bright red... well it was an idea.

In the end he figured he wouldn't have a choice.

* * *

"Hello?"

"John? It's Greg."

"Hey! Hello, is the baby on his way?" Finally?

"Not yet I'm afraid. Look I was wondering if I could trouble you for a second opinion?"

"Haven't asked me for one of those for awhile mate." Sorta missed them. Then again, not so much.

"I know but this is a difficult case. I need another eye. Will you come?" Say yes John.

"Of course. Text me the location, I'll be there soon."

* * *

John arrived in front of an expensive and beautiful hotel. Lestrade was waiting for him in the lobby. He looked stressed, probably his bosses were breathing down his neck to get this one solved. Must be important. Wait, was he deducing Lestrade? John smiled to himself and then reached forward to shake the Inspector's hand.

"Hope I can be of some help."

"Right now any help is welcome."

"Giving you a bit of trouble is it?"

"You better believe it. It's times like these that we wish he was still here to help." John looked away, paling slightly.

"Shit. Sorry John."

"It's nothing Greg. I should be used to it by now." Lestrade rested his hand on John's shoulder and squeezed it lightly.

"It's only been a bit over a year John. Give it time."

"Thanks mate. Now, show me the body." Greg grinned. John had perked up a bit.

"This way."

* * *

The body of a young man lay in the centre of the bedroom. He was well-dressed, lying on his back, his hazel eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. John circled the body once and then knelt down beside it, wishing he had Sherlock's old magnifier.

"Ronald Adair. He's the son of an Australian diplomat. He arrived a few days ago. Looks like a single gun shot to the head."

"But?"

"But we can't find the bullet, there's no powder burn, the room was locked from the inside and we're three stories up."

Now John understood why Lestrade had called him in. He looked around the room, trying to employ the techniques he'd seen Sherlock use time and time again. The cause of the wound was obvious to him. He'd seen that sort of wound many times before. Always by a sniper rifle. Which means.. the bullet probably came through the window, entered the man's head and then what? Was there an exit wound? Did it hit the wall behind him? John stood and moved towards the green papered wall and examined it. There nestled beside a photo frame was the bullet.

"Brilliant John."

"Not really, I simply observed." He felt his mouth twist into a smile.

"Well, whatever you did nice work. Can you fill out a report for us? I'll keep your name secret."

"Sure thing mate."

"Right this way."

* * *

Sherlock watched from afar, dressed in a policeman's uniform as John and Lestrade exited the hotel. Adair had been gambling the night before he died. Sherlock's and Mycroft's sources had confirmed it. Now he was dead, killed no doubt by a sniper rifle. A bullet to the brain. Moran was indeed a sore loser. And now that John was helping the police, he had once again become a target. Moran might feel the need to get rid of him this time, or even Lestrade as well, to hide the truth. If John hadn't deduced it yet...

He could still back out. He didn't have to reveal himself.

But he did have too. John's life was at stake. Moran was sure to be watching. And Sherlock did so want to see his friend again. No matter how much he said it was for the better that he didn't. Sighing, Sherlock headed back to his apartment, changing on the way. A disguise would be needed, whether he revealed himself or not. He couldn't simply waltz up to John's door in his coat and scarf and with ginger hair.

It was time to get creative.

* * *

By the time John arrived back at his flat the sun was beginning to head off to sleep, the sky darkening, the temperature dropping. He pulled up his collar as he fumbled for his key. Settling for knocking instead. Mary was there in no time, almost fully recovered. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close and through the doorway. John kicked it closed. Oh boy was he warming up now.

"How did it go?"

"Oh well, you know."

"Did you solve the case?" She began to kiss his cheeks.

"Well, I certainly helped it along."

"That's my brave soldier boy." She pressed her lips against his and...and...the damn doorbell rang. For fuck's sake!

"John!" He must have said that out loud...oh well, he still meant it.

"Wait here. Probably Greg."

John took his time untangling himself from Mary, cursing the entire way to the front door. The doorbell still ringing loudly.

"Alright, alright! I heard you!"

He opened the door.

...

"What?"


	25. You're Dead

It was a postman. It was a bloody postman, with a bloody package, in the middle of the bloody night. And he was ginger, with a frankly awful moustache. Well that wasn't really important. But it irked him. John figured there were only two logical reasons for a ginger postman to appear at his doorstep in the middle of the night. One, it had to do with Mycroft. Or two, it had to do with that sniper. Who he still wasn't totally convinced it was Sebastian Moran. The man shivered, the uniform far too large for his painfully thin form. Probably just picked up by one of the two, given a package and shown the address. Poor guy. He desperately needed a sandwich.

"Who do you work for?"

"I'm sorry sir? I work for the postal service sir."

He had a strange accent. It lilted but John couldn't place it. He reached behind his back to feel for his gun. It was still there. Ready if he needed it. Hopefully he didn't. This man could be an innocent. Or he could be an enemy.

"The post doesn't normally arrive in the middle of the night."

"Well you know the saying. Neither rain nor snow nor gloom of night can stay these messengers about their duty." The postman gave a wavering smile.

Now John was concerned.

"That's from Going Postal, by Terry Prachett. Now, I'll ask you again. Who do you work for?"

"The name he gave was M. Holmes, sir. Does that help?"

So it was from Mycroft. But the man could just be saying that to gain his trust. He needed to be sure. John and Mycroft had come up with a number of codewords while they had been holed up together. For use in emergencies or for identifying Mycroft's people. If this stranger didn't know any of them, then John would know that he was in trouble. He was glad Mary was still in the other room.

"What's the password?"

"I'm sorry the what?"

"The password!"

There was a pause and John's hand tightened around his firearm.  _Come on kid. Don't make me use this._

"Pirate." John sighed in relief and removed his hand, moving the allow the postman and his large parcel entrance.

"Thank you. You can leave it just there on the coffee table."

* * *

The man lifted the package and placed it on the table, wiping the sweat from his brow. It had taken him several minutes just to lug the box through John's door and into the room. The doctor wondered idly what was in it, but his mind was on other matters. Namely matters of the flesh. The postman pulled out a clipboard, gesturing for John to sign it as the man looked around his home. John quickly scrawled his signature, eager to get Mycroft's man out of his house. People deserve privacy after all, government official or no government official, his home life was none of Mycroft's business. He practically threw the clipboard at the man's chest.

"Alright, thanks. And you can tell Mycroft that next time, just wait till the bloody morning."

"Hm? Right! Uh..I'll try and convey that to him sir. Ah...do you um...mind if I ask you a question before I go?"

Well he was polite enough, might as well.

"Go on."

"Ain't that bloke in your picture that fake detective I've been seein' in the papers sir?" John felt his fists clench and his brow furrow.

"His name was Sherlock and he was not a fake."  _Get out now._

"But the paper sir..."

"The papers are wrong. I would have thought Mycroft's man would know that."

"Well I just started working tonight sir. Say, your signature says John Watson! You're his friend, that doctor bloke."

"Yes I am. And I doubt you'll be working for him very long."  _Leave._

"I'm sorry sir. It must be hard facin' the truth about someone you thought was a friend. Me mate the other day was saying that he must have felt real guilty to throw himself off a bloody building."  _Ok that does it. One more word. I dare you._

"Not been reading the papers lately? He's been cleared. He was innocent."

"Don't go calling me a liar. I know what I read sir. I knew that Kitty Riley, nice girl! Don't go pulling the wool over my eyes! He was a fraud and a fake sir, meaning no disrespect but someday you will need to face the tru-"

The postman never did get to finish his speech because John's fist had gone flying towards his nose and across his cheek, whipping the man around in a half circle. The man dropped to the ground in shock, backing away from the doctor who was clearly, pissed off, loudly panting and his fists clenching and unclenching. A pair of light footsteps hurried into the room.

"John! What's happened? Who is this?"

"An idiot. And he was just leaving."

Mary crept forward, leaning over and peering into the man's face.

"John?" Oh dear.

"What? Look Mary, keep away from him."

"John look at his face..."

"Why would I want to look at the bastard's, bloody face?" Very bloody.

Mary pulled him towards the man kneeling on their carpet, his nose dripping droplets onto the new, white rug.

"Just look."

So he did. He'd definitely broken the sods nose. He cheered inwardly as he knew his cheek would soon sport a spectacular bruise. His nose was bleeding everywhere however. His nose...his nose! Or rather what was beneath it. The man's moustache was slipping. His false moustache. Oh that did it. It was one thing to send a fucking arse-hole to deliver a package, but it was another thing for him to come in disguise. Did he really work for Mycroft? John decided that enough was enough and reached forward to remove the offensive piece of hair.

"Don't."

The voice was soft, low and very familiar...no. Just no. John pushed it out of his mind and ripped off the hat and the moustache in one swift movement, throwing them to the side, the hat narrowly missing Mary. The man ducked his head, trying to hide his face. But even he knew it was a futile effort of concealment.

"No..."  _It can't be possible._

John shook his head, standing and turning away, his hand rubbing across his mouth. He began to pace. The postman got up to leave, heading towards the door as quietly as he was able. Mary ran forward, grabbing his shoulder, hurried whispers entering his ear. John suddenly didn't want him to leave. He wanted answers and he wanted them now.

"Stay where you are."

The postman's hand hovered over the doorknob, the hand shaking. But why? With fear? He was afraid?

"Turn around slowly."

The other man obeyed, turning around slowly, his head still bowed.

"Look at me." Ginger curls swayed as the man shook his head.

"I said look. At. Me."

Sighing, the postman lifted his head, his pale eyes refusing to meet John's and John was fairly sure his heart had just leapt out of his chest. His knees buckled, propelling him to the floor, he winced as the bones hit the ground with a great deal of force. He felt light-headed. Oh god was he going to faint? He was shaking all over. This couldn't be real. It was a dream. Or a nightmare. It had to be. But Mary wasn't usually in these dreams. So why was she by his side, holding him, rocking him, telling him it was alright?

"S-sherlock..no. Y-you're dead."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by one of the reunion scenes in the Rathbone movies. Yes there was more than one. Holmes appears as a postman to Watson, says something rather insulting and gets a punch in the face for his trouble.


	26. Anger, Pain, Sadness and Despair

No. I'm sorry."  _I'm so sorry John_

No. No, no, no, no. John rubbed his shaking hand over his mouth and backed away from the, apparently alive, body of his best friend. How? How was this possible? He'd been dead, on the pavement, his blood had soaked the grey stones, his eyes had been dull, lifeless. There had been no heartbeat. And yet he stood here, like nothing had ever happened? And God, it spoke. His ghost, simulacrum or whatever. It actually spoke. Oh God, please let this be real.

_Please let him be alive, so I can kill him myself. The fucking bastard! How could he do this to me? After all we've been through, he still fucking fakes his own bloody death without telling his only friend. The son of a bitch._

"W-what? N-no I saw you jump. You jumped! You were dead! I held your hand, you had no bloody pulse! I watched you die!"

"It was a trick... just a magic trick.."

"What was that? Sorry? You're sorry? Do you have any idea what I've been through this past year? You fucking arsehole!"

"Actually John I-"

"No. No, for once you are going to shut your bloody mouth and listen. I mourned you, I cried for you. And for what? First I thought you had killed yourself, and it tore me up inside to think that I'd missed all the signs. That everything was so horrible that you couldn't take it anymore. Some best friend I was. Then I learned the truth, or what I thought was the truth. That you died to save us. I was so fucking proud of you and angry at you, at the same time. Because I could have done something. Because you had 'died' to save me. Now it turns out, that all that pain and suffering it was all for nothing. You didn't even trust me with the truth."

"Of course I di-"

"Bullshit." John..

John took a breath and glared with all his might. White hot anger had pooled in his stomach gradually rising up his chest until it had spewed from his mouth in a seemingly endless torrent. His hands were in fists, shaking, his nails biting into the flesh. But he felt hurt, not just anger. And betrayal. Disappointment soon followed.

"I ought to punch you again, you goddamn son of a bitch."

"John, don't you think you're over-reacting?" Mary was still holding his arm, concerned now for both John and Sherlock. Torn between the two.

"Over-reacting? You call this over-reacting? I can show you bloody over-reacting! Wait..why aren't you surprised?"

Mary glanced at Sherlock, his head was bowed again, staring at his feet. Not willing to look his friend in the eyes and see the anger and pain that now resided there. He had meant to make him angry, but not like this. He wanted to be sure of his friends loyalty and also so he had a convenient excuse to leave in a hurry. John always made friends with everyone he met, within reason.

"John..."

"Oh shit. You knew didn't you! Of course! He was the 'good man' you were mentioning. You kept this from me?" That cut John deep.

"I had no choice John. I wanted to tell you!"

"Never mind, we'll talk about this later." He turned back to Sherlock.

"And you got Mary involved in all this? She could have been killed! She ended up in hospital. Don't you care about anyone but yourself?"

"It wasn't my intention for her to get involved.."  _Of course I care about other people! I faked my own death to save you!_

"Was it your intention to break me? Was it your intention to make me feel like shit? Didn't you trust me? I could have helped you! No, instead you just left me here to pick up the pieces. Maybe you just faked your death to rid yourself of me. Too boring, too dull, too ordinary. Who else knew?"

"...That's not important.."

"Who. Else?"

"Mycroft... "

"And?" Of course, Mycroft was in on it.  _I'll tell him where he can stick that fucking umbrella._

"..Just Mycroft."

"Fuck. You know what? I'll be talking to him soon, oh do I have a few choice words to save to him. To think I actually felt sorry for the bastard, but you.. I want you out. Now. Get out."  _I can't deal with this._

"Will you allow me to explain?" John... please don't do this.

"No. Frankly I've had enough. Get out. You broke my trust, you hurt me, you nearly got Mary killed, you had the audacity to show up here in the first place. I know I should be overjoyed, but instead I feel betrayed. I can't deal with you. Leave. Now!"

"John.." Please...

"Are you fucking deaf? Leave!"

"John dear, maybe you should calm down and listen to what he has to say.."

"Not now. I can't Mary. I just can't."  _It's too much. It's just... I can't do this._

Sherlock felt something drop in his chest and picked up his hat and moustache, putting them back into place. Mary tried to stop him leaving, but the look she saw in his eyes broke her heart. It was defeat. Sherlock was giving up. He'd told her how this would end and he was right. As always. She only wished John could see Sherlock for who he was now, not who he was before. But his fury and pain was clouding his vision, or he'd have noticed the tears in Sherlock's eyes, his shaking body, the barely restrained fear and horror, because his best friend was rejecting him, just like he'd always feared. Maybe he'd change his mind. Maybe after he had calmed down, the joy he should be feeling would wash over him and he'd run off into the streets and try to find Sherlock.

John had turned his back on Sherlock, pacing back and forth until he left the room, the sound of a glass smashing against the wall was heard soon after. Mary grabbed Sherlock's arm again. Pleading for him to stay. John will calm down. He will forgive you, he just needs time. You have to stay Sherlock. But the detective shook his head, unable to wait that long and doubting that her words were truthful. White lies, to make his pain lighten. It was a nice effort, but pointless.

"He'll come round Sherlock. I promise you. It's just too much for him to take in. He cares about you so much, give him time." Tears slide down her cheeks, her heart aching for both of them. Both of them complete idiots.

"I don't have time. Make sure he gets the package. That's why I came after all.." I never meant for this to happen, to reveal myself.

"Sherlock..."

"Make sure he tells no one else. At least... not yet."

Such big, sad eyes. How could she say no? She leaned forward and pecked him on the forehead, his eyes widening, confused. She smiled and closed the door. Of course she cared for the silly detective. She would just have to make both him and John see reality. Sherlock needed to understand that John still loved him dearly and John needed to realise that Sherlock was a broken man and that everything he'd done was to keep his friend safe. Mary was definitely going to be busy for the next few days.

* * *

Sherlock smiled sadly to himself as he opened the door and strode out into the cold wet night. The pitter patter of the rain mingling with his tears. Damn-it. I knew this would happen but I hoped against everything that it wouldn't. As he trudged home, he pondered Mary's words once more, then pushed them out of his mind. Preferring to think of the Case of the Hidden Sniper instead. Where would he strike next? Who would he strike next? Could Sherlock fool Moran into thinking he'd killed him? He'd be easier to sneak up on then, but it would be a difficult thing to set up. He'd probably need Mycroft's help.

It was an entertaining thought, one that kept John out of his mind until he arrived at his flat, dripping a trail of water from the front door to his living room. He discarded the jacket and shoes, throwing himself on the couch and burying his face until a cushion. John was angry now, but he would surely be furious if he learned of Normund and Basil. And Sherlock knew it was highly possible that Mary might spill the beans on both.

A mrt erupted from his feet, Milton was annoyed to have been ignored once again. Sherlock picked him up, holding him to his chest.

"Mycroft was right, small one. Caring is definitely not an advantage."


	27. We Need To Talk

The text came approximately fifteen minutes after Sherlock had returned home. Only three people had this number. There was an eighty percent probability of it being Mycroft. But it could also turn out to be from Molly or Irene. Mycroft would have had him followed, but it was unlikely he knew what had occurred inside the flat. Only that Sherlock went in and then came out not long after. Sherlock wished he could say 'I told you so'. Because he had told Mycroft what would happen and he'd been right.

John had rejected him, John hated him. Despised him. He probably no longer considered Sherlock a friend. Because the detective had betrayed him and his trust. He'd lied to him and hurt John terribly. This wasn't something easily fixed. If it was able to be fixed at all. Sherlock wished he'd taken his own advice and stayed away from the doctor, but he hadn't been able to help himself. Still the addict.

The phone chimed again, then resorted to ringing. Sherlock reluctantly picked it up, practically ignoring the voice on the other end of the line. It asked how he was, what had happened? And to wait, a car would be over shortly. Sherlock could have argued, could have told his brother he was fine, that nothing had happened. But it would be a lie and a noticeable one. He couldn't hide the emotion present in his voice. Plus, he actually wanted to see his brother. The rift between them had all but vanished, though he missed the teasing, the insults and jibes. The witty remarks. Mycroft still attempted the teasing on occasion. But his eyes would grow sad when Sherlock didn't respond to it, or worse, when he took it seriously.

A horn blasted from outside his front door. Time to face the music. He picked up Milton and placed him in the pocket of his threadbare coat and trudged out the door. Milton purred contently, enjoying the ride, only complaining when Sherlock almost squashed him whilst trying to get into the unmarked cab. The detective pulled him out of his pocket, the kitten showing his anger by swatting Sherlock's nose.

"You're angry at me too? Seems the whole world is right now. I am sorry little one. But you mustn't play while in my pocket." The kitten's tail twitched and his little nose wrinkled, but it seemed like all was forgiven.

If only fixing things with John were that easy.

* * *

Why? That was the first thing John asked when she hesitantly entered the room. John sat perched on the edge of the couch, his hands running through his short hair, occasionally pulling at it. He was on edge, his emotions still running hot and high. His leg thumped and twitched nervously against the floor.

"Why? Why did he do this? Why did he lie? Why did he choose to come back now? Why, Mary? Tell me, I know you know more than you're letting on."  _Please tell me._

"He had his reasons John. You already know some of them."

"Because of the snipers. But surely he had other options! If he had just told me his plans, perhaps I could have helped. Perhaps I could have protected him better. But no, he kept everything to himself, threw himself off a building and I had to pick up the pieces. He could have at least told me after he'd faked his death but he didn't even do that! Why? Did I mean that little to him?" Didn't he realise how easily things could have gone wrong?

"I think you mean the world to him."  _I know you do._

"Well, he had...has a funny way of showing it. The sod. What do you know? Please tell me. You owe me that much. I accept that meeting him was out of your control. But you must know something! Anything! Surely you asked him questions?"

"John, perhaps it would be better if you asked him these things yourself." John chuckled. He probably didn't even answer Mary.

"Oh no, nice try, but I think it's best if I stay away from that git for awhile. In case I punch him in the face again."  _Because I know I will. And then some._

"If it's any consolation..thats what I did when I first saw him."

John laughed. The very idea of gentle Mary punching someone in the face was comical. However her face remained serious. She wasn't joking. Good on her then. He deserved it. He deserved a good beating. A proper bashing. He needed to feel how John felt. What John went through every day. The pain he carried with him, the guilt that haunted him. Sherlock needed to know just how bad he'd hurt his supposed best friend. But should he even bother to tell him?

"Well done."

"John, that's not very nice, you know."

"So what? He deserved it! I don't care if I never see him again." Oh John!

"You don't mean that, surely!"  _No I don't. But I can't stand the sight of him right now._

"Maybe I do. Maybe I don't."  _Maybe I shouldn't care. Maybe I should just forget him._

"John..."

"No, don't Mary. I'm still not too happy that you kept this from me. Right now. I need some time alone. Can you do that for me?"

"Of course, but what of the package? It's still out there waiting, he risked you seeing him so it must be important." She'd almost forgotten and it was clear by the look on his face that he had too.

"Fine, I'll take a look and then I want my quiet time."  _And my beer._

* * *

The package looked ordinary enough. A large brown box. John's name was written in that very familiar scrawled handwriting. The doctor hesitantly opened the package, his eyes widening at what he saw inside. There was a note. And two jumpers. The first jumper was a navy blue, it was cable knit like his cream one. The other one was frankly hideous. It was covered in very creepy cats. Sherlock had gone out of his way to buy John two jumpers. But why? If he didn't plan to reveal himself, was it meant to just be a random gift from Mycroft?

Mary chuckled at the cat jumper and nodded with admiration at the blue one. John rolled his eyes and opened the note. It read: " YOU ARE IN DANGER. MORAN STILL ON THE LOOSE. HE KILLED ADAIR. BE WARY AND WATCHFUL. DO NOT DO ANYTHING THAT MIGHT ATTRACT HIS ATTENTION. M.H". What did that mean? Was it really Moran after all? Was his old comrade really the sniper? And he'd killed Ronald Adair. At least now that case could be solved. Sherlock must have been worried that John taking on a case so soon after returning home might attract unwanted attention.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"What are you going to do now?"

"I think I'm going to go and see a certain government official. And you're coming. From now on we stay together? Alright? I don't want anything to happen to you."

"With you beside me, I'm in the safest of hands. But are you sure it's wise to go and visit Mycroft right now? It's late."

"God, I'll interrupt his sleep then. If he does sleep." Mary sighed.

"Alright. I'll go get my coat."

Smiling, John pulled on his black jacket and pondered all the horrible things he wanted to say to Mycroft's face. This was going to be enlightening. Hopefully for the both of them.


	28. Rest

Sherlock tried not to think about John during the journey from his flat to Mycroft's house. This seemingly small task seemed almost impossible. How many times had he been in a taxi, turned to his side and John had been there? Sometimes he'd smile back, or tease, other times he would fall asleep, his head resting against Sherlock's shoulder. More than once, John would be drunk, Sherlock would come and fetch him and take him home and John would sleep it off in his bed or on the couch.

Now when Sherlock looked to his side, there was an empty space. A space that never should have existed. John should be standing by Sherlock's side, not this nothingness. He wondered if it would always been this hard, or if it would eventually get easier? He wasn't sure he was ready to move on from John just yet. Not until he at least knew the full story.

* * *

The car shuddered to a halt, shattering the detective's thoughts. The driver helped him out of the vehicle, Sherlock's psychosomatic limp had deteriorated during the long walk back to his flat. Making sure Milton still was safely asleep in his pocket, he followed the driver into the building and towards his room. He refused everything except the offer of a glass of warm milk and then made himself at home. Sherlock was tired and wanted nothing more than to lay his head down and slip into the land of nod and hope his dreams would be more pleasant than real life.

Sherlock lay Milton's sleeping form onto the couch and slipped out of his postman's uniform and into a pair of grey cotton pyjama pants and a blue tee. He rested his head on one of the fluffy pillows and decided to wait for his milk and then sleep. Perhaps it would be easier that way. And sleep he did, and as he had feared, his dreams were not pleasant at all. John turned his back on him in everyone. And it hurt.

* * *

The manservant was quick to report back to Mycroft as soon as his little brother had arrived. Mycroft wasted no time practically rushing to his room, of course looking as if nothing was on his mind at all. But when he opened the door, he found his sibling asleep, clearly exhausted. Mycroft could guess what happened, in fact, he didn't need to guess, he could simply deduce it from Sherlock's face. However it would prefer to get the details from Sherlock himself once he had woken up and felt up to it.

He swept back the ginger hair that suited his brother so well that it might as well be his natural hair colour. His nose was clearly broken, the silly boy hadn't set it before sleeping. And neither had John. The deduction was obvious and Mycroft could feel fire rising in his belly at the thought of John not only rejecting Sherlock but physically injuring him and then turning him away. "I am so sorry little brother, you were right." It was fortunate for Mycroft that Sherlock was asleep, for Mycroft would never have admitted it if his brother wasn't.

There was a knock at the door, which opening slowly revealing the manservant. Sherlock stirred at the noise, turning over in his sleep. He looked so young and vulnerable, which he was at least right at this moment. The servant tiptoed towards Mycroft, who moved from his place by Sherlock's bed. He placed a finger on his lips, the universal symbol for bloody well stay quiet, my baby brother is sleeping.

"What is it?" He whispered, it must be important, he'd dismissed this man for the night. His servants usually took any free time they could get.

"Sir there is an...um...angry man waiting in the foyer. A very angry man Sir. I believe it to be Doctor Watson. I am concerned he will break something if you do not come right away Sir."

"Very well, direct him to my study, make sure there are no breakable items and then bring us some soothing tea." The servant bowed and fled the room. Mycroft sighed, he knew it was only a matter of time before John would confront him, but he hadn't expected it so soon. He must be truly close to boiling point and couldn't wait till tomorrow to scald Mycroft. The government official only hoped the good doctor would listen to him and take his words into account. But this was probably wishful thinking, a great deal of yelling was likely to come his way sooner than later. He supposed he did deserve it.

"We'll talk later Sherlock." He pulled the sheets a little so that they covered his little brother's shoulder and patted his arm, before leaving the room in search of one livid John Watson.

God help him. Because he certainly needed it.


	29. The Rage of the Good Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Part one of John is really angry at Mycroft ok. So enjoy.
> 
> Also just throwing this out here...I'd love podfics of my stories by people, people famous podficcers even...like fayjay...just saying...its a dream.
> 
> Alright enjoy!

Very angry turned out to be an understatement. Although on principle Mycroft tried not to use the word very to describe something. If anything, John Watson was livid, full of rage, pain and betrayal. The minute Mycroft walked into the room, he could cut he tension with a knife. They stood by the fire, Mary whispering in John's ear, probably soothing words, or maybe giving him pointers. He started to wonder if it were not for Mary's presence, that the situation may well have turned violent. The government official put on his politest smile and gestured for his two guests to sit. A gesture of course, completely ignored by one and greeted with a sympathetic smile by the other. Here goes nothing.

"Ah, John, Mary how are you this evening? You are looking much better I must say. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Thank you Mycroft." Mary smiled and tried to pull John towards his chair. The doctor resisted, pulling away from her to poke his finger in Mycroft's face.

"Now you listen here,  _Mycroft_  Holmes, you owe me a bloody explanation and I'm not leaving here until I get it!"

The manservant returned with warm, green tea and in Mycroft's opinion not a moment too soon. He offered one to Mycroft, Mary and John, the doctor flat out refusing the drink, which spoke volumes to the government official and Mary. The servant placed the rejected cup onto the small coffee table and bowed. Mycroft nodded in return.

"Thank you Ianto, you are dismissed." The man left as quickly as he was able, that room did not feel the least bit safe.

Mycroft cautiously sipped the warm liquid, his eyes never leaving John's. He remained standing because he had no doubt that at some point in their oncoming conversation that John would grab him pull the collar to pull him up. No sense in damaging a good suit. So clearly John was in want of some decent answers, and yet he hadn't received them from Sherlock? ...Ah, he didn't let Sherlock explain, no wonder his brother was so upset. John had both ignored and rejected him. And now the doctor had turned to Mycroft for answers. Should he supply them? Did John deserve them after how he'd treated Sherlock?

Yes he did.

"I'm afraid I do not understand John, to what are you referring to?"

John forced a laugh. "Bullshit, you know exactly what. Don't play ignorant it doesn't suit you."

"Perhaps if you were more specific..."

"How's this for specific? SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES IS ALIVE!"

Was that specific enough for him? It bloody well better be. John wanted answers, he wanted them now, he god help him if he didn't get them. His hands were clenched into fists, the knuckles turning white. He needed to know, he had to know, why Mycroft lied, why John was never told, had it all been some sick experiment? Had they been laughing at his suffering behind his back?!

"Is that specific enough for you?! Oh and you knew too. Did you ever plan to tell me? Tell us, well obviously you told Mary, but I'll get to that later." John turned as if to walk away but whipped around just as suddenly, his finger practically on Mycroft's cheek.

"You know, I felt sorry for you." The doctor continued. "And for what? Nothing! It was all a god-damned lie!"

"John..."

"No, Mary. Let me finish. Did you ever think, maybe I would like to know my best friend was alive? Or did you enjoy holding that secret from me? Secrecy probably turns you on. How long have you known, by the way, just so I know. How long have you been keeping this from me, from us?!"

Mycroft had remained silent during John's rage filled speech, at least now he had a chance to defend himself. And to defend Sherlock. The vulnerable one who had only ever done what he thought was right and was now facing so much rage and pain from the man he had once called his best friend. Mycroft did not owe his brother anything, but he was after all his brother, they'd both been through so much that John and the others couldn't even comprehend. It was up to him to protect Sherlock and explain to John, everything.

He just hoped it was enough.

"A week after his...after he jumped, he came to me. In disguise. He wanted my help, though he was somewhat reluctant due to my involvement in the whole mess. But I was his brother after all, and I have considerable powers that he considered useful. So yes, I have known for awhile." He started pacing, he knew it wasn't safe to turn his back on John, so he kept his eye on the doctor, looking for any change of emotion in his face.

"You should have told me. He should have told me! You've known for that long? You bastard! You've been milking my sympathy for all it's worth haven't you?! The sob stories, the photos, what were they all for? Everything's been just an act hasn't it? All this time, I trusted you. You Holmes' are all alike, backstabbing sons of bitches." The doctor spat out the last insult, Mary trying to hold him back. She could see Mycroft almost bristle, his teeth grind behind pursed lips. She'd never seen him mad before, but she imagined this must be what it looks like.

And she knew why.

"I shared those things with you because I thought you would have wanted me too! Because I hoped that when Sherlock returned, perhaps you would understand him more. How dare you presume this has been easy for me! For him! Have you any idea what he's even been through?!"

"Frankly I don't care. Apparently he never did."

"John!"

Mycroft took a step towards Watson, towering over both him and Mary. Never had the term, The Most Dangerous Man In London, seem so real, so not a joke. Mary knew that if he wanted to, he could get rid of both of them with a snap of his fingers. But he wouldn't. He cared for John in his own way, or he never would have gone to such lengths to help Sherlock protect him. No, it was because of Sherlock, it was for Sherlock, that Mycroft's anger was building. But John wasn't afraid. The soldier bravely standing before the government official, prepared to fight to get what he wanted, to have his voice heard.

Oh John if only you would listen.

"What?! Why should I? He never bothered to consult me about any of this! So why should I care?"  _But I do care. Stupid bloody idiot._

 _"_ Because you do. And thats why it hurts."


	30. Boiling Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter, I do apologise! But you know I like to leave it in a way, so that you keep wanting more...
> 
> I am also starting to write a Sherlock/Wonderland fic.. not sure if I mentioned... well I am! Slow to start but I am sure it will pick up, I just have a lot of ideas and feels ok!?
> 
> I promise in the next chapter John will get the answers he seeks... and someone may have been listening at the door...
> 
> Enjoy!

If that didn't go and just cut his heart in two. Because it was true, he did care. Why else would he be so angry? If he truly cared little for the detective, then he wouldn't even be here. Even though this was little more than an excuse to yell at Mycroft. But even though John knew he still cared for Sherlock, what he had done still hurt. He still felt that feeling of betrayal, of being lied to, fooled. That this had all been some sick experiment. But, then...that couldn't be true either, could it? Oh God, please don't let it be true.

"You never let him explain John, just listen, please. For me?"  _Oh Mary, but I am terrified of the answer I may receive, I want to hear it, but I don't want to. What if it is everything I've feared? What if it isn't? What if I did something wrong and it's too late to atone for it?_

"I...I can't..."

Something in Mycroft seemed to snap at that moment. As if things had been building up inside and John's last comments had caused it to boil over. He spoke with barely restrained rage, something John had never seen in the government official before. Not to this degree.

"Am I to understand that you beat him, verbally abused him and kicked him out of your home, possibly not even metaphorically, and you did not even let him explain himself? What sort of a man does that to someone he once cared about? Are they the actions of a soldier?! They are certainly not the actions of a friend!"

"Mycroft look I-"

"No! I thought better of you Doctor Watson." Mycroft turned away from John, running his hands through his perfectly groomed hair. And it was true. He had. How many times had he told his brother that everything would be fine. That John would not turn him away? Look how wrong he was. Sherlock had been right. But then he had known the doctor better than Mycroft or his people.

"Look this isn't exactly my fault! My whole world has just been turned upside down. Don't make this out to be my fault! And it's pretty obvious he didn't consider me a friend if he never even bothered to inform me he was going to fake the whole thing!"

"It was too dangerous!"

"Bull shit! I live on danger!"

Mycroft and John continued arguing, neither truly listening to what the other was saying. Mary could only handle so much as they hurled insults back and forth, as deftly as any tennis player. She'd never seen Mycroft so wound up and furious, John she had seen angry, but not like this. If only her darling would just listen! But she could hardly blame him. And she could hardly blame Mycroft for being angry at John for his reaction. The only real innocent party in all this was Sherlock, who had only done all this out of love, to protect those he cared about. Mary was glad he wasn't there to hear this. She wished she wasn't, in fact, she didn't want to hear anymore of it. It was time for someone with sense to take charge.

Mary slipped in between the two men, pushing them apart, her hands on their chests. While they were momentarily distracted she got on her toes and grabbed a ear from each party and twisted it. The agonised cries told her it had been a success. They were no longer arguing.

"That is enough! Grow up, both of you! John, you need to listen to everything Mycroft says, no interruptions! And Mycroft, John has every right to be as upset as he is, you need to take that into account." When it seemed as if both had been properly shamed, she let go of their ears and wrapped her arms around John's shoulders.

"Sit, both of you. I will ring for more tea."

* * *

A cup of tea each and three muffins later, John and Mycroft had calmed down. Due to tireness on John's part and Mycroft's throat not used to so much yelling in such a short space of time. Mary was entirely satisfied with herself and hoped they sorted out their differences soon. There was an assassian on the loose and a friendship of great importance on the line. And Sherlock...dear Sherlock. John needed to realise all he had done for the doctor and try to fix him. If that was even possible now. Yes, of course it was. Positive thoughts, Mary.

"Are you, prepared to listen to me now, Doctor Watson?" The question was cautious, hesitant. It dreaded a negative answer.

John took a breath and let it out slowly.

"Yes, tell me everything."


	31. Answers Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was gonna mainly John and Mycroft talking but then Sherlock wanted to join in...
> 
> And yes my kitty would make the sound of a ringing phone when talking to us.

It was the yelling that eventually woke him up. He rubbed his sleep caked eyes and attempted to resume his slumber. But the volume of the voices belonging to the arguing parties increased. And even putting a pillow over his head did little to muffle the noise. The thickness of the walls themselves made it impossible for him to even discern what the people were yelling about. Although one voice sounded oddly familiar, but it's owner could not possibly be here. It was John. But why had he come here? Thought Sherlock.  _Has he come back to hurt me again?_   _No, he's yelling at someone though._  Had he come to confront Mycroft? Sherlock didn't blame him for being mad, but it was not Mycroft's fault, it was no ones but his own.

An inquiring  _'mrt'_  broke his chain of thoughts. Sherlock had moved from his spot in the bed and Milton, who had decided to join him, was not happy with this new development.

"Sorry little one, but I must get closer so I can hear what they are saying." Sherlock replied, pushing back the bed covers and pulling on his slippers. He lifted up a deep green dressing gown that lay over the couch and shrugged it on, leaving the tie undone and letting it trail along the floor. And as the detective crept towards his door, Milton leaped off the bed, his little behind wiggling as he prepared to pounce at the tie. He missed it completely but was undeterred and followed Sherlock out of the room.

* * *

The hallways were unusually deserted, the staff most likely eating in the kitchens, or had left for the night. Only the roaming security guards remained. Occasionally one would walk past Sherlock, but so long as the detective stayed in the shadows, he would remain unseen. The tall, lanky man continued his slow journey towards the arguing voices that had woken him. It seemed as if they were reaching the height of their argument. Though it was still difficult to make out what they were saying. But he was sure that he'd heard his name at least once or twice.

He was almost at the door now and could easily make out Mycroft's voice yelling at John. Which was unusual as his brother rarely yelled at anyone or about anything. At least not in front of him. Something tugged at his dressing gown as he turned the corner. Confused he turned around to find Milton on his back, chewing the dressing gown's tie, looking completely innocent. He dropped it as soon as he realised he'd been caught red handed, or in his case, red pawed, and pretended he'd been doing something else all along. Sherlock sighed, the scamp would only get in the way. He picked him up, placing him in the pocket of his gown.

"And keep silent." Milton replied with a sound that Sherlock likened to a ringing phone.

"Whatever."

* * *

The voices were now almost deafening. But there was no mistaking what they were talking about now. He'd been right, it was all about him. John was clearly upset, the pain was present in his voice to such a degree that Sherlock's own heart ached. His friend roared about how much it had hurt loosing his best friend, how hard it was to make it through each day. And how betrayed he'd felt once he'd learned that Sherlock had never died. John thought all his mourning and anguish had been for naught.

And Mycroft tried to make John see what Sherlock had been through, but it seemed as if John would barely let him get a word in. And then as suddenly as it had all started, it stopped. Mary's voice broke into the fray, taking charge of the situation. Good old Mary. She was good for John, as much as he hated to admit it. She was the kind of person who would take no nonsense from anyone and wouldn't be immediately swayed by charm alone. She would fight to learn all she could about a person so she could better care for them when the need arises.

Sherlock wondered if he should go, but his curiosity had gotten the best of him, as it always did. He wanted to hear just what exactly Mycroft had to say to John about him...

* * *

"But this better be good Mycroft." John found himself adding, though he knew it would be. But that was what worried him. Sherlock had been without him for quite awhile, had he kept himself out of trouble? Probably not. Oh he knew that Sherlock had managed without him for years before they met, but what about after?

"It depends, of course, on your definition of good, Doctor Watson. Are the answers a good reason for you to listen? Yes. Is what they contain good, I would say not."

"Just start at the beginning Mycroft, and don't spare a detail. I want to know everything."

And he did. Mycroft began his tale with Sherlock's leap off St Barts. Mary held John's hand as the knuckles went white, even after all this time, even knowing now that Sherlock lived, it was still so hard to think back on that day. John learnt that Molly had helped to fake Sherlock's death and that Mycroft did not know right away. He felt strangely grateful that someone had been there for Sherlock like Molly had. But it still hurt. Mycroft explained how Sherlock had come to him after the funeral in disguise. How angry and relieved he'd felt learning his little brother was alive and safe. Except he wasn't safe as it had turned out.

"You know he jumped to save you John."

"Yes, yes of course I know."  _How could I forget?_

"It didn't end there. Those men that would have shot you and the others, they as well as the entirety of Moriarty's network remained at large. That's why he left, to deal with them, so that one day he could return home and be happy in the knowledge that everyone he cared about was safe."  _Do you understand what he has done for you?_

That...could not be possible. John tried to respond but his throat had closed up, the emotion welling up in his eyes. Sherlock had risked his life more than once to save everyone. He'd put it on the line to protect those he cared about. And John had turned him away. Sherlock had done something so big, so full of love and because of love and John had dismissed it like it was nothing. He could feel Mary's arms wrap around his shoulders, whispering to him, but he felt numb. Yes he was angry that Sherlock hadn't told him he was alive, but now he knew it was for a good reason. It didn't mean he forgave him, or that he didn't have more things he'd like to yell at the detective. But Sherlock had come back to protect him and John had hurt him badly. He'd seen it in the other man's eyes, though he had chosen to ignore it.

Mycroft was right, what sort of a friend does that to another?

_I am so sorry Sherlock._

_But I still can't forgive you yet._

* * *

Sherlock lay against the door, his arms wrapped around his knees, listening to his brother's tale and John's pain and his own heart broke again.


	32. Answers Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, back to longer chapters! Hopefully..um... enjoy? And again if you'd like to podfic, or suggest for someone to podfic... I'd be very happy.
> 
> That is all.

"So, what has he being doing all this time?" Mycroft took a breath, moving his empty teacup and setting it lightly on a saucer.

"Taking apart Moriarty's network. Bit by bit. It was for more extensive than we thought."

"By himself?"

The thought of Sherlock trudging along that path alone, worried him. It would have been a war of sorts, and war changes people. He should know. Fighting Jim's people would not have been an easy task. War never was.

"He had help from my men and later, from Miss Adler. Once I believed she could be of some use of course."

"Irene Adl- I could have helped! I'm not some defenceless lamb that needs constant protecting. I was a soldier!"

"You were not allowed to be told John. Moriarty's men had to believe Sherlock had killed himself. Otherwise your life, the lives of Mrs Hudson and DI Lestrade would all have been at risk. Not to mention, so would Sherlock's life. How better to convince those that watched you all, that the Great Detective was gone, than the very real grief of his best friend?"

Damn him! Why did he have to go and make sense? But even though it did, it did not mean that John would accept it as an reasonable excuse. And John knew he would have been of some help. He had no doubt that even with the help of Mycroft's men, Sherlock would have found himself in some sort of trouble, that John was fairly sure he would have been able to prevent.

"Was he safe though? Going after all those people, was he protected? Was he ok?"

Mycroft looked away, far too quickly for John's liking. And he didn't have to be the world's only consulting detective to deduce it's meaning, however he was afraid of the conclusion he had come to.

"Mycroft?"

"For the most part. There were a few..'incidents', that I wish I could have prevented, but you know Sherlock, if trouble doesn't find him, he goes out looking for trouble."

John swallowed. "Tell me."

"I'm not sure thats wise John.."

John's fear increased, worry creeping into his stomach and edging up his chest towards his heart. But Sherlock was ok right? He was ok now, he'd seen him. He was fine. So why was John so afraid of what Mycroft might tell him? Was Mycroft still angry and that was his reason for not wishing to tell him? Did Sherlock not wish him to know because he considered John a worrywart and a mother hen?

What was Mycroft so afraid to tell him?

Or was there a far darker reason? That it hurt Mycroft to even think about it. That it fuelled his nightmares night after night. John had to know, even if it hurt. Especialliy if it hurt.

"Tell me, please."

Mycroft paused, then nodded. "Very well." He agreed that John needed to know, but it felt too early to tell him. However, perhaps now might be the perfect time. He would understand more about what Sherlock had gone through. This would be hard for the both of them, as Mycroft still hated to dwell on this particular subject. Perhaps he'd start with the less...painful incidents.

"But we will require something a bit stronger than tea."

* * *

Mycroft placed the crystal stopped on it's matching neck and handed John a small glass of brandy. Mary had declined, opting for another cup of tea. Mycroft had poured himself a glass as well. The government offical draped himself on the elgant chair and pondered with what story to begin with. Perhaps something humorous first.

"In the beginning it was only the occasionally cut or bruise, nothing serious. He would come and go often, from London, sometimes not returning for days or weeks on end. Until one day during his...shall we call it a hiatus? Not long into this hiatus from life in London, I recieved a phone call from Miss Hooper. Sherlock had been injured and drugged."

"He took drugs?"

"What? No, no, a man, whom we believe now to be Sebastian Moran, had a small syringe on his person and under the cover of darkness, he injected it into Sherlock. He stabbed him with it."

"Like Irene."

"Yes, the similarity did not go unnoticed. He had somehow made it to Miss Hooper's home, covered in blood and completely out of his mind."

Oh Sherlock..

"She eventually called me." Mycroft continued. "No doubt you can recall the antics Sherlock performed while under the drug Miss Adler gave him?"

John chuckled. Yes, he remembered that quite clearly. One does not usually forget ones best friend commandeering an ambulance under the delusion that it was a ship and he the pirate captain. It had taken a lot to convince the paramedics that John could take care of him at home and even more to convince Sherlock to leave his "ship". John himself had to pretend he was the first mate...

* * *

_"Avast ye landlubbers! Ye come but one bit closer I'll keel haul th' lot of ye!"_

_Despite the serious fact that Sherlock had been drugged, John could not hide the mirth from spreading across his face. Apparently neither could Lestrade who was currently filming Sherlock with his phone, while the staggering detective paced back and forth along the roof of the ambulance. A stick in his hand acted as a sword. He waved it at anyone who threatened to get closer. Shouting curses and pirate slang as loud as his lungs would let him._

_"Greg, we can't leave him up there, what if he passes out? He could fall off the bloody ambulance." Greg chuckled, but nodded. The last thing they needed was a drugged and injured Sherlock in hospital._

_"I know mate, but how the hell can we get him off there? He's already giving Anderson a broken nose, and we're lucky he isn't pressing charges."_

_"Yes well, in all due respect, the git deserved it." Greg grinned._

_"Probably, but it's still not going to be an easy task. Maybe he'll listen to you?"_

_This was possible, but how to make him listen?_

_"I said stay back! Unless ye want to visit Davy Jones' Locker!" Sherlock wobbled dangerous at the side of the vehicle, he could fall off at any moment! Quick... what were some pirate slang words that he could use?!_

_"Belay that!" Shouted John, weaving his way through the small crowd of police officers and neighbours that had come to gawk at the drugged detective. Sherlock peered down at John, his sluggish brain trying to identify his intentions._

_"Ahoy!" John continued. "I'm...ye first mate...Johnny! Uh..it's not safe here Captain, come, we must return to the good ship 221b Baker!" Please work. Somehow._

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Jawn?" He slurred, taking a step towards the doctor._

_"I'm here Sherlock.. I mean Captain." The detective looked confused for a moment. Then stood straight._

_"Aye! Back to 221b, away from this festering landlubbers!" Relieved, John helped his best friend off the ambulance. Now wondering how to get him to let the paramedics look him over. Fortunately for John he didn't have to worry. Sherlock passed out as soon as he landed on the ground. And somehow, John managed to carry him into a taxi and then help a very tired and wobbly pirate captain up to his bedroom and into bed._

_It was one of those memories that John had cherished after Sherlock 'died'. It showed his humanity, his vulnerability and the hidden silliness that he only showed to John. That the pirate captain still existed under Sherlock's skin and in his mind, made John smile._

* * *

"I can see you do remember." Said Mycroft after awhile, a small smile playing on his lips as he sipped his brandy.

"How could I forget?"

"Yes, well Miss Hooper was rather frantic for me to come at once, I believe Sherlock was attempting to experiment on her cat. Of course I left immediately, and just in time too. He recovered quite well under my watchful eyes."

John nodded, pleased that Sherlock had suffered no ill effects from that unfortunate episode. But he knew this was not the one that Mycroft was uncomfortable speaking about.

"He badly injured his leg whilst tracking several members of Moriarty's 'gang', with Miss Adler. And he was knocked out cold." John tutted, they both knew just how reckless the detective was while on a case, so this did not surprise John in the least.

"He recovered well from that too?"

"Extraordinary well, I believe. His time in Tibet and China helped him tremendously too I think."

Tibet... China.. why did they ring a chord in his mind? Something tugged at his memory but he could not follow the thread back to discover why. Had he deleted it? Perhaps it hadn't been that important, but why did he feel like it was?

While John was thinking and trying to remember, Mycroft stood up and poured himself another brandy, this time bringing the bottle with him. He was sure he would need it. He caught Mary's eye as he did, she gave him a sympathetic look. She knew some of the story that was about to come, but not all of it. But what she did know was already enough to break her heart.

"...Is that... is that all?" John asked, a look of worry constricting his features. Mycroft inhaled sharply. And tried to continue. But the words wouldn't come.

"Is it that bad? Is it that hard to continue?" The small voice that answered him chilled him to the bone.

"Yes."

* * *

Outside the door, Sherlock was still listening intently. However as Mycroft drew closer and closer to the 'Moriarty Torture Incident', as Sherlock had named it, or alternatively, IT NEVER HAPPENED, he was stuck between wanting to listen and wanting to leave so as not to suffer a flashback or hear John's response. Milton however, decided for him. His little mouth opened, crying out for his dinner, despite eating only a few hours previously. It was a wonder the little creature was not as fat as Mycroft yet. Sherlock tried to get his pet to remain quiet, but it was too late, the animal was scratching at the door in front of him and Sherlock could hear footsteps leading towards the door.

And then it opened.


	33. The Truth Can Be Painful

When Mycroft opened the door, he expected to find his sibling, on the floor, eavesdropping, however what he did find was completely different. A little furry someone, with big blue eyes stared up at him from his spot by the door. He mewed once and then gleefully leapt into the room, immediately ordering someone to feed him. Ignoring the kitten, Mycroft stepped out of the room and looked both ways. No sign of his brother. Still, perhaps it would be a good idea to send someone to check up on him. Mycroft gestured to one of the wandering guards and ordered him to check on his brother, before the government official closed the door and turned towards his chair. Which was occupied...

"Is this the cat I heard the other month when I was here?" _The last time I was yelling at you..._

"Yes."

"Ah, didn't peg you as a cat person. Or a pet person..."

"He's not mine."

Mary was already on her knees, petting and cooing over Milton, who responded in 'mrts' and rings and happy purring.

"Then who's is he? I f you don't mind me asking?" John was curious now and Mary seemed very familiar with the little cat.

"Sherlock's."

Sherlock's? Seriously? Sherlock with a pet was a hard thing for John to imagine. The only reason he himself had never brought a pet home to Baker Street was fear that the detective may wish to experiment on it. But this little guy looked happy, healthy and well fed. Perhaps he'd misjudged Sherlock on this issue. Perhaps he'd misjudged him on a lot of things...

"I can't hard to imagine Sherlock ever getting a pet."

"He didn't." Mycroft picked up the animal by the scruff of it's neck and placed him in Mary's waiting lap. He then sat himself back down with a sigh. "He was a Christmas gift from Molly and Irene."

John raised an eyebrow. "He have a name?"

"Milton." At the sound of his name, a little black head rose, eyes wide in hopes that perhaps he may receive treats. His tail flicked with annoyance when he realised no food was coming.

"Nice name." It was quite a nice name coming from someone like Sherlock. He'd half expected the cat to be named Cat or Thing or It. John welcomed Milton as a distraction but still could not put aside the worry he'd felt about his friend earlier. He was still his friend wasn't he? Despite the rage, despite the feelings of pain and betrayal, Sherlock was still is friend, right? The fact that he couldn't answer that scared John.

"Yes.."

Mary glanced over at the small milk jug standing on the little table next to Mycroft and wondered if it still held it's contents. The jug was a dainty little thing, creamy white with gilded edges. A sprig of lilies was painted on one side. It did not match the tea set.

"The jug that came with this beautiful tea set was broken yesterday, by an imbecile." said Mycroft, guessing Mary's thoughts. He did not mention that it belonged to his mother and that it was kept purely for sentimental reasons.

"Oh, I was just wondering if there was any milk left, for Milton. I thought perhaps he could drink it out of a saucer."

Mycroft stood, reluctant to leave his chair once more, especially for someone as silly as Milton. "Yes there is still milk, fortunate Milton." He lifted the jug, slowly pouring out the liquid into the saucer below. Milton's ears perked up, his tail swishing eagerly. Mycroft placed the saucer by Mary's feet, the kitten leaping from her lap to greedily lick up the milk, making happy sounds as he did so.

"He looks well-loved..."

"He is. He is everything to Sherlock. Confidant, comforter, cheerer. And Milton adores him. You can barely separate the two..."

Why did that seem so sad? John sighed, rubbing his hands over his eyes. It was late, other questions could wait. All but one.

"I need you to tell me what you are afraid to tell me, please. I don't think I could rest until I know.."

"I don't know if you could rest even if you did know John, but very well. But it is not an easy tale."

* * *

"It is a hard story to tell to anyone, I believe, who knows Sherlock. It started in China, he and Miss Adler had stopped over to dispatch a few of Moriarty's associates. It was supposed to be an easy task, with little trouble. But unfortunately trouble had other ideas. Sherlock was kidnapped...by Moriarty himself. I believe he was drugged via his nicotine patches."

"Kidnapped?!"

"Please, John, hold your questions till later, this will be hard enough without you interrupting."

"Yes... sorry. I'll shut up."

"Thank you."

* * *

_I received word not long after and dispatched the remainder of my men, plus a recovery team made up of the best of the best military personal, trained in search and rescue, to help me find my brother. But Moriarty had not made finding Sherlock easy. It took us six weeks to find him and by then, it was almost too late. I had nearly lost him, we had all nearly lost him._

_I remember opening the door to his cell, seeing the pale, thin body lying against the wall. So small, only a shadow. I wanted to run up and hug him, but it is something a Holmes does not do and he flinched when I drew near. He was covered in blood, his body broken, oh John._ Mycroft's voice began to croak.  _I held him in my arms and turned his face to look at mine but those eyes, there was no life behind them. They were dead eyes, except his pulse hummed beneath my hands. He was lost, he was so lost, I'd failed him and he had run away, where I couldn't follow._

_They tortured him John, in unimaginable ways. I've seen the videos. Moriarty sent them to me. I wish I had never watched them. They broke me, I was supposed to be watching him and a failed. I brought him back here, fully prepared to take care of him if this was a permanent state. He was lost to us for over a week but it felt like years. And the fear that he may never return to us was very real. But, in the end you saved him._

* * *

It couldn't be true. John's heart broke clean in two. He had almost lost his friend again without ever knowing about it. He stared down at the floor, fighting back tears.  _Oh Sherlock, I thought nothing could break you. You were so strong. What happened? I should have been there to protect you my friend._ The thought of that magnificent brain and wonderful is sometimes annoying brain being forever locked away made him feel sick.

"I saved him? I don't understand."

"I couldn't bring him back John. So I told him you were in danger and he returned, to save you. You are everything to him. Everything I wish I was and can not be, though things have changed between us you will always know what lies in his heart John. Even if you decide to cut your ties with him. You still know him better than me."

John didn't know what to say. He was touched. He only wished he had been there to help Sherlock through this ordeal. Or to have been there to prevent it happening.

"But he's ok now, right? Right?"

"They broke him John, I don't know if he will ever be the same again."

Shit.


	34. Broken Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long, so this chapter isn't as good as some of my previous ones but hopefully now that its over, the rest will follow with ease.
> 
> Enjoy.

 

John wasn't sure how long he'd been staring at the floor, trying to control his emotions. It felt like hours but he knew that was unlikely. He didn't know how to feel about everything he had just heard. It was eating away at his heart. He was still furious at Sherlock's deceit and worried for his wellbeing. Would he always be broken? Could he be repaired? These thoughts ran through his mind, circling it, in a seemingly never ending torrent of dread, worry and anger. The doctor didn't even notice his Mary, pulling him back to the chair he had left ten minutes earlier when he'd decided to start pacing across the room. She placed the small black ball of fur in his lap and wrapped her arm around his shoulder.

"Are you alright?" Mary asked, more than a touch of concern in her voice. Poor John, this was all so new to him, and to her in a way. It broke her heart thinking of how Sherlock must have suffered alone for so long. How he suffered even now...

"I'm fine."  _I'm scared shitless Mary._

Milton began to purr and climb John's torso until he was settled between his shoulder and his chest. John stroked him absentmindedly and tried to pull himself together. Mycroft pursed his lips and sighed. This was clearly too much information too soon. He'd thought as much. But John had been so insistent and Mycroft had felt better after getting those memories off his chest. He stood and opened the door, alerting one of his men, whom he instructed to get a car ready to take John and Mary home.

"No Mycroft, I'm alright."

"You have had a shock tonight, and another just now. Go home and have a good's night sleep. If you want to know more, call me in the morning." Mary nodded her agreement with Mycroft, gently encouraging John to stand, whilst trying to untangle a sleeping kitten off of his clothes.

"Come on dear, let's go home. Sleep will do you good."  _It won't Mary. I know it won't..._

John gave in and nodded his goodbye to Mycroft and pulled Mary close to him, heading for the door. Before he exited, he turned back to look at the elder Holmes brother.

"Will he get better?"

"I don't know John. I do hope so."

_I hope so too._

* * *

The ride home was quiet, the car's two occupants in the back seat, huddled together. Not just for warmth. But for comfort as well. When the car arrived at their flat, they left the vehicle quickly, hurrying inside. Wanting the safety and comfort of home to make them feel better. It didn't help. Mary made John a warm cup of his favourite tea and served it with a small plate of jammy dodgers.

By the time both were finished, John was barely awake. He didn't bother changing into his pyjamas, instead just removing his jacket and shoes before crawling into bed, close to Mary. It took him a few hours to get to sleep. Part of him wanted to forget this night had ever happened. The other half held onto the information that Sherlock was alive, as if it were his lifeline. When he finally slipped into the arms of Morpheus, he tossed and turned all throughout the night and morning. His dreams tormenting him, over and over again.

* * *

John opened a door hesitantly, behind it a nervous individual that he knew quite well. He raised his fist, punching him in the face, black curls flying. He caught the body in his arms and raised his fist again. And again. Until his friend's face was a bloody mess.

"John" He whispered.

"No." Joh replied and pushed Sherlock away. He turned and headed down a dark, pitch black, corridor.

"John! Please..."

But begging had no impact on John's heart. He ripped it from his chest, it was frozen solid. He threw it at Sherlock's feet.

"Moriarty was wrong. He didn't burn it. He froze it. You froze it. Leave me Sherlock." And he turned and left, ignoring the weeping that followed him.

"John... but you're my friend...John?" The door slammed in the detectives face. Tears poured down his pale cheeks and he clutched the heart against his own. Willing it to thaw.

"Please..." He held it tightly, like a child might hold a toy when he was frightened. Sherlock cradled the frozen heart, stood and walked away.

"I'm sorry John..."

* * *

The stairs went on forever into the nothingness. Into a pale purple void. Photos with faceless people hung on invisible walls, stars shone from above. John continued his journey. He wanted to go faster, but his legs refused to obey. But he reached the top quicker than he anticipated. In front of him was a blue door. He turned the knob warily, worried about what he may find inside.

_It was 221b._

_No one seemed to be home, but the rooms shifted, the image of it going in and out of focus. But he could see the couch. And a familiar form stretched out. It wore pyjamas and a blue dressing gown. An arm hung over the side. John's stomach dropped. He ran to his friend's body. He shook it, but he would not wake up. John could see an empty needle on the floor by the couch, and empty vials beside it._

_He shouted. He pulled Sherlock to the floor and checked for a pulse. There was none. He wasn't breathing either. John pounded on his chest, forced air into his lungs. But even he knew it was too late. But why? As he pulled the body close to his own, holding it in his arms, he noticed a letter lying on the couch. It had his name. It told him why. Because John had abandoned him, because Sherlock was too far gone, too broken. So he had overdosed. So John could have a happy life without him and with Mary._

_"You idiot. I would have forgiven you eventually. God no. Please come back..."_

_"I'm sorry Sherlock."_

* * *

In a small flat, lying beside the woman he loved, one man awoke and cried silent tears.

Far away in a large bedroom, a cat nestled at his side, another woke up and cried alone.


	35. The Morning After

John woke up the next day as he always did. He wiped the sleep from his eyes, he yawned and pulled his legs across the bed and into the plush brown slippers that waited beside it. He pulled on a warm, red dressing gown and stumbled towards the kitchen. It wasn't until the kettle was boiled and the tea poured that he was fully awake. And then he remembered.

The cup dropped from his hand and smashed onto the cream tiles of the kitchen floor. John jumped as droplets scattered across his legs. He cursed and moved to clean it up. Sherlock was alive. He was alive, he didn't kill himself to protect John. He survived and he was in London right now. And he was broken. And John was still angry at him..

"John? Is everything alright?"

John shook his head clearing it and finished sweeping up the shards of his teacup.

"Just dropped a cup Mary, I'm fine. Everything is fine." He brushed the pieces of the cup into the bin and opened the cupboard to take out two more. Mary's gaze softened and she wrapped her arms around John and held him close.

"Of course everything is fine." She pulled his cheek, receiving a smile in return, but she noted the red eyes and trembling hands. She took her cup as he offered it and headed towards the living room, gesturing for him to join her. He sat down beside her as she pulled her legs in and curled up against the arm of the couch.

"Talk to me John." She asked calmly, sipping her tea, her eyes filled with concern.

"There's nothing to talk about. Nothing at all."

"John last night you discovered that your best friend was still alive. That is not nothing."  _Not to mentioning everything else we found out later that night._

"I don't know if I can even call him my best friend anymore. Too much has changed. I mean, I'll probably see him again and get his side of the story, and I'll acknowledge what he's gone through but...in the end, he still lied to me." John didn't look at her as he spoke, sipping his tea in-between words.

"Oh John..."  _Can't you see he needs you? That you need him?_

"I find it hard to trust people, he was the first person since I returned home from war that I befriended and trusted. But then he broke that trust. You can't just fix something like that. Not when breaking it meant faking your death and never telling your so called best friend. Even if he had noble reasons..."  _He still should have told me. Look what happened to him without me. The idiot._

Mary put her cup aside and hugged him. "You still care John, I know you do. And I know you and Sherlock will make amends somehow. The whole time I've known you, you've been missing something. I know what it is now. Sherlock."

"Mary.."

"No listen to me John. Sherlock may have done something you consider unforgivable, but he did it to save people. Even if he was foolish, his only desire was to keep you safe."

"That doesn't change how I feel. I can't just turn that on and off like he does!"

"But he doesn't, he just buries it. John, he's already broken, are you going to make things worse by rejecting his renewed offer of friendship, if it comes?"

John sighed.  _That's right, make me feel guilty. I still feel hurt._

"It's not like I will cut ties with him forever, we just won't be as close as we once were. How can we be?"

"I don't know John..."  _But you will be, I'll find a way._

* * *

Sherlock's morning wasn't quite as eventful. He awoke clutching his chest, just like in his dream. But instead of a frozen heart, he held a very angry kitten. Who showed his displeasure by trying to growl and hitting Sherlock's nose, before jumping off the bed in a huff. Sherlock frowned and pulled the bedcovers over his head. It was far too early to be up and about after such an eventful night. Milton disagreed, crying loudly for his dinner. The detective groaned. Surely someone else would hear the cat and feed him. But no one came.

"Shut up!" Milton stopped crying and stared at his owner in shock. He trembled and hid under the couch.

"Oh for goodness sake." Sherlock slowly got out of bed and knelt down to look under the couch.

"Come out of there I'll feed you, alright? Can't have anyone else hearing me shout and find out I didn't feed you. Or that I yelled at a kitten." Milton continued to tremble.

"I'm sorry, alright? Please... don't be afraid, I'm not going to hurt you." Sherlock reached under the couch only to receive a small scratch across his hand.

"I probably deserved that. Fine stay under there then." The detective decided to feed the cat instead and hoped that would draw him out. It did. Satisfied, he went back to bed. Ten minutes later the door opened.

"Good morning brother dear!" Mycroft opened the curtains, letting the sun's light fill the room.  _Just what I need, light,_  grumbled Sherlock to himself.

"Rise and shine. Breakfast is ready." Sherlock felt long hands attempt to remove the blankets from covering his face.

"I'm not hungry." The detective mumbled from beneath the bound of sheets and blankets.

"That's just too bad because you are eating this. You are still too thin for my liking. Up, right now Sherlock. Oh so help me I will make Miss Adler wake you."

Sherlock pulled the covers back. "You wouldn't dare."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, Sherlock. Now sit on the couch and eat."

Sherlock glared at his older brother and pulled himself out of bed and onto the couch, grumbling under his breath.  _Lousy Mycroft, waking me up when I need a decent amount of sleep after last night. Not even hungry. Why doesn't he just eat it? Stupid fat git._ It was cereal, not even something he liked. Was he trying to make Sherlock miserable? He took one spoonful and then pushed the bowl away.

"Done."

"Sherlock."

"You eat it then."

"I have had my breakfast. Now eat. We have things to discuss."

_Fine but I'll eat as slow as possible, draw it out as long as I can. And then you will be called away and I will crawl back into bed. I'm not in the mood to be lectured._

He stuck the spoon back in his mouth, while simultaneously flipping his finger at Mycroft, who only raised his eyebrow.

_I don't need this right now Mycroft.._


	36. It Was A Mistake

He took as long as he was able and longer than he should, to finish his meal. It was the first time he had eaten every inch of it in quite awhile, so Mycroft had allowed his brother's charade to continue longer than it needed. When the spoon finally clinked against the bottom of the empty bowl, Mycroft snatched it from his brother's hands and placed it far away from him.

"Enough." He said quietly and calmly, which got Sherlock's attention more than and if he yelled or snapped. "Talk to me. Tell me what happened, in your own words."

"You know what happened."

"I want to hear it from you. I want to hear the other side of this story, Sherlock." Sherlock frowned and stood, starting to pace behind his chair.

"It happened just as I told you it would. He hates me, he rejected me, he wouldn't listen to what I had to say. I was a fool, I should not have gone there, even in disguise but I thought the risk was worth it. I didn't intend for him to find out then. I wasn't ready. I wasn't sure. And now I've ruined everything. I was such a fool!" His hands moved as he talked, flailing in the air and ending on his head as he pulled at his hair in frustration and anger at himself. He rarely yelled or raised his voice anymore. But right now he could not help himself. He'd wrecked everything. EveRything he'd tried so hard to fix, everything he'd tried to keep safe. For the sole reason of one day coming home.

But now he had no one to come home to. He'd hurt the one friend he relied on more than others and destroyed a friendship he held so dear. And it was all a mistake, an accident. It wasn't supposed to happen!

"It wasn't supposed to happen." He whispered, his voice breaking, his chin on the back of his chair. He knelt on the ground. And buried his face in his folded arms. " I ruined everything."

"No you didn't Sherlock. Give John time, he will come round." He moved from his seat to stand beside his little brother. He placed his hand on his shoulder and shushed him. "This is not your fault and I will not have you beating yourself up about it. You are being unnecessarily dramatic."

He gently pulled Sherlock away from the couch. His little brother resisted at first but then allowed Mycroft to pull him away and help him to stand. Mycroft fixed his mussed up hair and smoothed down his clothes. "Enough Sherlock. Let things be for now. There are bigger issues at hand."

"Bigger than my broken relationship with John?"

"Not more important, but more pressing, or had you forgotten about Sebastian Moran?" Sherlock sat down suddenly. No, he hadn't forgotten, at least he hadn't meant to.

"What has he done now? Is it time?"

"No, not yet. And I will discuss it with you later this evening. Right now I wish for you to get your nose fixed. And then I believe I have some of my own work to do. Please amuse yourself till then, but do not leave this house. Understand?" Sherlock nodded. What was there for him to do anyway? Except wait. But wait for what?

"He had every right to hit me, you know. I expected it. I.. suppose I deserved it. And he needed it." Sherlock didn't look up as he spoke, rather he looked at his hands. He felt guilty and ashamed of himself and his actions. He'd hurt John so badly. And John had rightfully hurt him. But he didn't think it would cause him this much pain.

"He will regret it later, or perhaps he won't. But he will regret not giving you a chance to explain. And he will forgive you Sherlock. Just give him time to process everything. Now I have to leave. If you need me, you know my number, Sherlock. Someone will be around soon to fix your nose."

_I don't believe you._

* * *

This had gone on long enough and he was tired of waiting. His prey was well and truly at ease, they felt safe. But which prey to take down first. Concentrate on the fallen detective with the broken heart? Or the lovers? The detective had suffered enough, it was time to put him out of his misery once and for all. One shot was all he needed. Sherlock's brother would no doubt brush everything under the carpet and the world would be none the wiser. They would never know Sherlock had been still alive.

Then he would decide about killing the doctor. He had nothing against the man in the end. No one would criticise him if he just didn't shoot him.

Soon though. He'd end this very soon.


	37. Neverending Hours Of Nothing

* * *

He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting in front of his computer. Long enough for his tea to become stone cold. Long enough for his hand to become numb from resting the side of his face against it. He had only written one, short sentence.

'He came back.'

The He was obvious, at least to John and anyone who really knew him. The sentence was a fact, void of emotion, revealing nothing of the writer's opinions or feelings. Which was how John currently felt. As if his previous venting at the Holmes' over everything that had transpired had sapped it out of him until he felt hollow and empty. Unsure how to think or feel about what he'd seen and learnt. Which was why he'd been staring at s mostly blank computer screen for the past few hours. John cricked his neck and flexed his hand, both sore from being in the same position for so long. He gave the blog post one last glance before deleting it.

The world wasn't ready for the Return of Sherlock Holmes. And neither was he.

* * *

His nose now supported a small bandage over it's bridge, it felt infinitely better than before now that it had been re-aligned. But that did not meant he had to thank the doctor. He wasn't Sherlock's doctor. Only one man held claim over that title, though if he would ever re-claim it remained to be seen. This doctor was nervous, stuttered and muttered sorry every five minutes. Sherlock scowled as the young doctor fled the room, he was new to Mycroft's employ. Sherlock doubted he would last. It took a special sort of person to stand being around a Holmes for a decent length of time.

He threw his dressing gown over his chair and exchanged his pyjamas for some tracksuit bottoms and a pale grey tee. He collapsed back into his chair and spent the next hour watching crap telly. Was this his life now? Crap telly, crap clothes, crap doctors? There was no adrenaline here, no excitement. Yes there was still an assassin on the loose but Sherlock was barely able to leave his room without two people following his every move. At the same time, though he missed the adventure, the thrill of solving a crime and catching a suspect, would he truly enjoy it if it went back to being just him. Would he even be allowed to solve crimes?

Sherlock sighed, switching channels before the door knocked. It was a quiet, hesitant knock. The person on the other side was shy and did not want to bother the occupant of the room. Only one person knocked like that.

"Come in Molly."

Mycroft never knocked, Anthea knocked once before barging in, without waiting for answer. Twice she'd entered his room while he was in his pants. Irene would tap her fingers against the wood until Sherlock opened the door. John would...John would...Sherlock shook that thought out of his head and watched his Molly closed the door and crept into his room. She winced at the sight of his nose. Did she come just to gawk at him?

"Can I help you, Molly?" He was not in the mood for visitors.

"I um, just came to see if you were alright. Did John really hit you? Oh how horrible, are you ok? Does it hurt? Though I can understand why he punched you. It looks like it really hurt! How do you feel?"

"Molly."

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

"Sorry." She didn't mind his rudeness, not when she could see the pain radiating from his eyes. And the rudeness made him sound like his old self. Just a little bit.

Sherlock hmmphed and drew his legs up against his chest. Molly's eyes turned her gaze to the floor, standing there in an awkward silence for several minutes before muttering sorry and leaving the room. That's not, she didn't have to...silly Molly. He wasn't angry at her, he was angry at himself...and Mycroft. But then when wasn't he angry at Mycroft? Sherlock just wanted everything to be over and back the way it was, but this was something unobtainable. He was angry at himself for letting things get this bad. Angry at Mycroft for his overbearing, constant vigilance. Ok, so maybe the last few times he had ventured out on his own he'd ran into a little bit of trouble. But things would never get better, would never be over soon, if Mycroft didn't let him off his leash and fix things.

He turned the volume up on the telly and slouched as much as possible. He had to get out of this house.

* * *

He felt like a tiger stalking his prey, slowly but carefully, inching ever closer to planting his fangs into the warm flesh of his victim. He wanted to watch them squirm, he wanted them to watch each other as they descended into darkness and death. Who should he let live the longest? The Doctor, so he could watch the man who saved his life over and over bleed to death, or the Detective, who failed to save what mattered most in the end?

It wasn't long now, he felt as if he was becoming obsessed with this last request. But he'd see it through, then he'd be done with this sniping business once and for all.


	38. And So It Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry a bit short again! To make up for it, heres a few plot ideas I have and hope will happen.
> 
> • The Fantastical World Of Sherlock Holmes (where did Sherlock go when he ran from reality?)
> 
> • The Balled of Badass Mary Morstan
> 
> • The Empty Hearse (SOMEHOW DAMMIT)
> 
> • The Empty Flat
> 
> • Final Confrontation
> 
> • Oh God Yes
> 
> and so on. I have more but I shouldn't give them out all at once.
> 
> Enjoy!

A phone call that afternoon was the last thing John expected or wanted. There was only a select few people who could possibly be calling and the majority of them were people he'd rather not speak to. He'd much rather punch them in the face. And that was a mild reaction. He would wait for Mary to answer it only she'd become fed up with him for the time being and headed to Tescos. John also considered just letting it ring, but it might actually be important. Sighing in resignation he stood up and answered the bloody thing.

"Hello?"  _This better be good._

"John?"

"Greg?" He hadn't even thought to call the Detective Inspector. But then, what could he possibly tell him?

"Yeah mate. Are you ok? Your voice sounds a bit funny."

John rubbed his hand over his eyes. "Yeah I'm fine, just had a big night."

Greg chuckled. "That's my boy. Listen, we've had another of those murders, the ones by the sniper. Appears to be the same motive too, over a gambling debt."

"So?"  _What does that have to do with me?_

"Well...it's just your name was writen on a note found next to the victim. With the words 'is next' accompanying it. I have to tell ya, I'm more than a bit worried mate."

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. John sat down in his chair, letting the phone rest against his leg, Greg's voice muffled. This was it wasn't it? It was either Moran or John. He was going to have to confront and take this man down somehow. But it wasn't as if you could contact elite assassins via Facebook or Twitter. Maybe his blog...

"John? You still there mate?" Greg's worried tone almost shouted from the receiver.

"Sorry, yeah just thinking."

"Thats what worries me. Thats dangerous business John. Look don't do anything stupid alright? I've just told Mycroft to, by the way."

"Fuck."

"Yeah I know, but we need him on this. Stay put for now ok? Just, go to a room with no or little windows and keep calm. Ill be calling again soon with whatever plans the Great Git comes up with. Be careful John. Can't lose the Godfather of my baby. And you better be alive by the end of this week cause the little bugger should be out by then, if Anna has anything to do with it."

"Thanks Greg. I'll do my best to not die."

"You better." The Detective Inspector hung up, leaving the doctor still in a form of shock.

What should he do? Should he confront Moran? He had certainly made a lot of people very miserable. He had also been involved with Moriarty, he was his right hand, his killer, his John Watson. John had more than enough reasons to want to stop this man. But, should he? Or should he sit this one out. Again. But stopping this man once and for all was an attractive idea also. Not kill of course, John had morals unlike the assassin, but if it came to that...he would be ready. Because Sherlock and Mycroft had failed to stop him, maybe what was needed to stop Moran, what was needed to make this work...was a doctor.

* * *

Sherlock had made a spur of the moment decision that afternoon, or something along those lines. He didn't wish to become comfortable in Mycroft's home again. He had business to attend to, and he could not carry out said business, from a bedroom in his pyjamas. At least, not this time. He had allowed himself a moment of weakness and now was the time to put it behind him and proceed with his plans. What happened with John..was unfortunate, it hurt terribly, but he couldn't wallow in self pity anymore. Not if he wanted his life back.

He changed from his pyjamas into his clothes from the previous night and picked up a complaining Milton. The kitten was not impressed by Sherlock's decision, he would much rather tear Mycroft's couch to shreds.

"I sympathise with your situation, Milton. But another time. We must be off."

"And where might you be going, dear brother?" Stupid eavesdropping git!

"Out. I have things to do, remember?"

"I don't think so, that would be unwise. I just had a phone call from Detective Inspector Lestrade." He only used Lestrade's full title when he was displeased.

"And?"

"John is in danger, again."

Sherlock clenched put Milton back on the couch and clenched his fists. Couldn't Moran just leave them alone? Just long enough for Sherlock to find him anyway. Leave John out of this! When would this be over? When Moran was dead and buried? Or brought to trial, something Sherlock doubted would ever happen, Mycroft would make sure of that.

"Tell me everything."


	39. I Love It When A Plan Comes Together

"Do you realise what you are asking of me, Sherlock?" This was no small task, free from danger.

"I am well aware, it is, however, the only solution."

"And what if the good doctor, decides to take matters into his own hands? It is not unlikely that he himself will formulate a plan."

This had of course already occurred to Sherlock. However he was unsure what to do with that knowledge. John was highly unlikely to listen to Sherlock or even Mycroft. Perhaps not even Lestrade or Mary. Sherlock's plan must be put into motion as soon as possible, before John got a chance to act. Time was of the essence. Sherlock could not afford to lose John, even if he did hate him.

"Should we inform the good Detective Inspector of your miraculous resurrection? Or would you rather keep it under wraps for now?"  _It might do you good for someone else to know, Sherlock._

"Not yet, simply inform him about the bare necessities of the plan and have him ready outside with his men, once it is implemented."

Sherlock was unsure of what Lestrade's reaction would be. He couldn't deal with another person rejecting him at the moment. He needed to be free of emotions. Because right now it would only hinder him. But it was not that easy.

* * *

"Look I know this is incredibly important, Mycroft but I really can't afford to leave Anna right now. The baby could come any day, any minute now! Surely someone like Dimmock would suffice, he's a good lad."

"Even if he were perfect, he is unfamiliar with my men or myself. This is a chance to catch a man who has committed an unimaginable number of crimes."

"I'm touched Mycroft, I didn't realise you'd become so attached to me."

"Really Greg, this is not the time for levity. This man must be stopped before the good doctor Watson does something he regrets." Or Sherlock gets himself killed.

Lestrade weighed the odds of both decisions. Catch the man who was partly responsible for a friend's death or be there for the birth of his child. Both were equally hard decisions. But there was a possibility that he could do both. If he timed it correctly.

"Can I speak to my wife first?" Hopefully she will not eat my head off.

"You may, but please do not leave it too late. Things will start moving into place tomorrow. I expect to hear from you as soon as possible."

"Of course, of course. Can't leave something like this to chance, can you? Especially with the doctor no doubt plan to escape the surveillance you have on him. Night Mycroft, I'll call you as soon as I know."

"Night Mycroft."

* * *

Even though John Watson was not privy to the plan conjured up by the Holmes' brothers, his own plan was frighteningly close, with a few minor differences. He had only two issues, one: he had to contact Moran just before he left so that the guards and the Holmes' would not be alerted until it was too late to stop him and two: he had to get past the guards. He'd done so before but usually with the help of Sherlock, right now he was on his own. He would have to go tomorrow, he had no doubt that Sherlock and Mycroft would have already come up with solution themselves, but now it was John's turn.

He'd been left out of so much, so many adventures missed, battles that would not have been lost if he had been there. So many injuries he could have prevented, a friendship he could have saved. But he'd been considered a liability, they didn't trust him. Sherlock didn't trust him. Well, he'd show them would an ex-army doctor was capable of.

But it wasn't simply to be able to lord Moran's capture of everyone, he knew everyone he cared about, and himself, would never be safe so long as Moran was free. John would be always afraid that that assassin would attack those he cared about. The man had already tried before and he would stop at nothing until his mission was complete. What a waste of talent and intellect.

Well, time to put on a show.

* * *

It wasn't hard to fool the cameras he knew were dotted around the flat. It was a task he'd performed many times before. He also knew where the blind spots were situated, which would make his escape easier if he could distract the guards. But that was a problem for tomorrow. Right now everything he needed for his mission was ready. Which wasn't much, but he didn't need much. That was the problem with people, they always made the wrong conclusions about him. He wouldn't need some extravagant plan to take out Moran. Just a gun, his brain and he knew damn well that he was cleverer than a lot of people thought. He was also the only one who knew Moran. And he could use that to his advantage.

A door creaked open and he could hear the hurried footsteps as Mary ran into the room, her face twisted in fear.

"Oh John, are you alright! There are men everywhere, not so someone ordinary would notice, but I did. I was so worried!"

"I'm alright dear one, everything will be ok. Mycroft will sought everything out." Mary breathed a sigh of relief but John could tell she was still concerned.

"Come on, bring those groceries into the kitchen and we will make something delicious for tonight."

"Are you planning to make it then?" Mary asked with a cheeky look on her face, her eyes still radiating concern.

"For you, anything."  _I will make the most of this night while I can, big day tommorow._

* * *

Tomorrow is everything changes.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is just an interlude while I figure out the plot a bit. It's something I wanted to write for awhile, I couldn't write everything I wanted to so I might touch on this again later on. I also want to add things I know might happen in series 3 but I don't want to spoil you, even though you might not know what they are. But damn I want to include them so bad!

He told everyone that he didn't remember. That what happened to him, where he went inside, was now lost. But this was a lie. He was Sherlock Holmes after all, his mind was not like an ordinary person's. Of course he remembered. Not all of it, but much of it. But it was easier to pretend that he didn't. He wasn't sure when he first ventured in. Or if he even went in consciously. Sometimes the real world would peek through and even when he figured out he was in a dream world, out of touch with reality, he didn't care. He even often forgot things weren't real. The inside world was better, he didn't want to leave. In the end he had no choice. But, even now he still missed it.

* * *

He can remember opening his eyes to stare, not at the wall of his cell, but the front door of 221b Baker Street. Sherlock felt confused at first, his mind slowly glossing over the details of where he'd been before. Where he really was. He stood in front of the door, his feet unsteady. Should he go inside? Was anyone even home? The sound of groceries toppling to the ground made him jump. He could hear the milk trickling from it's carton, spreading across the pavement. He didn't want to turn around because he feared the inevitable rejection he would receive from the one person he cared about the most. Because he knew that was who it was. The sound of the cane hitting the concrete told him everything he needed to know.

"S-sherlock?"

The word was whispered, so quiet he could barely hear it. But at the same time it was as loud as a gun shot. It tore through the loud noises of London. Sherlock turned. John's hands were shaking, one rested against his mouth. To keep himself from screaming? The detective watched the doctor muttered to himself. Swearing, murmurs of _"No! Not possible..."_  were audible. Sherlock didn't want to move, he was afraid to move. John cautiously stepped towards him, like he was afraid if he got too close, Sherlock's image would waver and disappear.

"You're alive." It wasn't a question.

"Yes." His almost was.

"Right." And then came the predicted punch to the nose. John wasn't avoiding it this time.

What wasn't predicted was the tight hug he received straight after it. It was one of desperation. John held onto Sherlock as if his life depended on it and Sherlock found himself responding in kind. He rested his head on John's as the doctor sobbed into his coat, his eyes wide and wet with tears. Sherlock didn't know how long they stood there like that. He didn't want to have to let go. But then John stepped back, wiped his eyes and coughed. The solider returned, embarrassed by his moment of weakness. He picked up what remained of his groceries and walked up to the front door, opening it.

"Well, come on then." He whispered, without turning around, to the waiting detective. Sherlock hurried after him.

* * *

Mrs Hudson fussed over him after she apologised for hitting him with a can of soup. She hit him, hugged him, kissed his brow and mothered him. John was hostile at first, but he slowly returned to his old self. It seemed as if he found it hard to trust Sherlock but couldn't help but care for his friend. Especially when it was clear he wasn't the way he used to be.

Sherlock would wake up screaming sometimes, his whole body shaking, sweat pouring down his face. It might take several minutes for him to get ahold of himself. But John was always there. He would hold the detective for as long as he needed, he would tell him everything was alright. It didn't always work. Because the nightmares were so real that sometimes the pain he suffered in them, came back with him when he woke up.

* * *

One time the pain was so strong he didn't stop screaming after John ran into his room.

"Sssh, ssh, it's alright, I'm here. It was just a dream, Sherlock, just a dream." John pulled the detective into his arms and held on tight. The detective whimpered, his screams muffled against John's jumper and his whole body couldn't seem to stay still.

"It hurts. It hurts John! Make it stop. God, make it stop please. Please." Sherlock 's voice was hoarse as he begged for John to help him. But John kept saying it wasn't real. But it felt real. His body was on fire, his back burned like he'd been whipped. He was so confused. What was real, what was fake.

"I don't.. I don't know where I am..." His open eyes only saw blood on a stone wall. His nose only smelt decay and blood and smoke. But his ears heard John. And suddenly John was in room with him, trying to pull him back to reality.

"You're home Sherlock, you're in 221b.." The doctor's voice seemed to break.

Sherlock sobbed into John's jumper until he passed out and let his very worried friend put him back to bed. The dreams continued but this time he didn't wake up screaming because John was there with him.

* * *

It should have tipped him off that things weren't right, John didn't want him to seek help. He never mentioned it. But Sherlock didn't care. Even when he wasn't sure if this life was real, it was preferable to any other. It felt right. It felt safe. As the nightmares became less and less frequent, so did the pain. He began to take cases again, the joy and thrill of the chase filled him up once more and things felt as they should be again. Lestrade invited him to crime scenes, Donavan and Anderson made their snide comments. Mycroft was an overbearing git. It was perfect.

And yet something kept trying to pull him away. Sometimes when he was alone he felt an arm on his shoulder that wasn't there. He would hear voices of people who weren't in his room. He would hear Mycroft begging. Once he turned the corner to go to his room to see Mycroft standing there with two men in white coats and then they vanished. Another time Sherlock turned on the tv to see his brother's face staring at him, talking to him except there was no sound. But he seemed frantic. He never mentioned it to John. Sherlock had already made his own conclusions. And it seemed, Dream John had too.

* * *

One night he woke up to the sounds of someone knocking on the door. John didn't answer it like he normally did, grumbling Sherlock got up, put on his dressing gown and went down to answer it. It was Mycroft. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and shook him.

"You have to wake up!" Which was absurd, because he was already awake.

"I am awake, Mycroft. What are you doing here anyway? You can't just barge in like this, Government official or not!" But his brother didn't seem to hear him.

"Please, just wake up Sherlock, I'll do anything."

"What's going on?" John rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stared at Sherlock, who turned back to Mycroft, only he wasn't there, he now stood against the wall watching Sherlock.

"Nothing. Go back to sleep."

"He's right you know."  _No, not you too._

"About what?"

"You have to wake up Sherlock."

No, no. Sometimes he forgot where he was, sometimes he forgot this wasn't real, but John never did. John was real, in this world he was real. He grounded Sherlock.

"No. I am awake. This is real!" John walked over to him and wrapped his arms around him.

"You know it's not, Sherlock. Please. You need to wake up."

From behind him, Mycroft began to talk again, but Sherlock couldn't hear him.

"Please, no. I don't want to. I don't want to go back. I don't want to go!" Please... don't make me go. John, please.. please don't make me.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. But you have to. You made me Sherlock, so you know what I would say if I were real. You have to go back, I wish you could stay here forever but I'm not real. Don't make this harder than it already is mate." John was crying as Mycroft grabbed his friend's shoulders once more and pleaded with him, J _ohn is in trouble Sherlock. You need to save John. Do you hear me? Save John Watson._  But John was right in front of him. Unless...it wasn't Dream John who was in danger. He felt his world fading, his desire to save Real John pulling him away. Mycroft's voice getting louder and more real. He looked up into Dream John's face, the doctor was smiling at him through his tears.

"Goodbye Sherlock and good luck." That was the last he saw of him before John and his world evaporated like smoke and Mycroft's face came back into view and Sherlock forgot everything.

Until he didn't anymore.

* * *

It was easier to tell everyone that he didn't remember than tell them that he wished he was still there. His desire to return became greater until an old enemy contacted him and that adrenaline that rushed through his veins returned. But even now, he sometimes wanted to close his eyes and go back there. The belief that everything would turn out alright and return to normal was probably a ridiculous one. Real John didn't forgive him. He wasn't there when Sherlock woke up at night, Milton was. A cat.

He knew he could never return though. The desire to catch Moran was strong and he couldn't do that to Mycroft again. Not after hearing him sob after a nightmare. Back when his brother used to sleep in the same room as him, he would wake up to hear his sibling sobbing to himself. Mycroft had never cried before, so Sherlock knew he must have hurt him deeply. So he couldn't go back.

But just maybe, one day, things might return to normal.


	41. It's Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late, been working on two other fics. Cold Body Warm Heart and A Study In Impossible Things. If you like AU's please give them a look, I'd be very grateful. I've also started a web design course, so I'm in Melbourne now every week. Not sure what else to say. Sorry this isn't long. Not much to write I suppose. Could have included Lestrade but I think I'll leave that for next chapter. Going to try and write another chapter for CBWH before bed...enjoy?

He spent the day with Mary, mindful that it might be his last. He made her breakfast in bed to start with, seduced her around 10:15, together they made lunch and had a picnic on the living room floor. For dinner Mary made a quiche, which they ate with red wine. John knew as he kissed her goodnight, that he may never see her again and hoped she would forgive him. Was this how Sherlock felt, he wondered, as he removed the backpack hidden in the hallway closet. He tried to shake the thought out of his mind but it latched on, preventing him from thinking about anything else. Had Sherlock felt like this? So unsure, hoping beyond hope that things would work out the way he'd planned, and that he would survive to see another day? Who knows...he's Sherlock Holmes after all.

The pack didn't hold much. A change of clothes, all dark and suited for hiding in the shadows, his gun and a knife, his phone and a pair of night goggles. The bare necessities but that was all he needed. There was only one thing he had to do. Message the man he was to meet. However the only way he could be sure the sniping bastard would see the message is on a platform, where everyone else would see it too. But, there was no other alternative.

* * *

_Moran - 10:30pm 221b Baker Street. Tonight._

* * *

It was a risky move, but he'd made sure Mrs Hudson was out for the night. He knew it was a possibility that the sniper might just do away with him from a building far away, but John knew every blindspot in 221b and it was familiar territory, so he would hold the upper hand. And if he managed to get shot well, John had planned for the possibility as well. He knew exactly what he was doing, unlike Mycroft or Sherlock, this was his element. They were only visiting. Well now, he better get moving, there was only a short space of time between the changing of the guards. Borrowing a trick he'd learnt from Irene Adler, he slipped out the window.

* * *

One advantage he had other the brothers Holmes, was that after spending so much time running through London with Sherlock, was that dodging the cameras proved to be stupidly easy. Whilst Mycroft probably believed that if John escaped to confront Moran, as he was doing now, the cameras would catch him before he reached his destination. How naive. Now, time to focus on the task at hand, getting to the flat before Moran.

* * *

No, he wouldn't be that foolish. John would never...but the words on the screen proved otherwise. Yes, John would go after the man that threatened the person he cared about and himself. Sherlock gave little thought to himself, believing John would not protect him anymore. Those days were over, not that he approved of said protection, though it had been welcome at the time. Sherlock had to get there before John or..make Moran a better offer. Unlike John, Sherlock still had a direct contact link to Moran, Jim's old number. Moran would have kept it, sentiment.

_You, me 10:30 tonight. Make it worth your while._

_SH_

_Why should I, it would break little Johnny's heart?_

_SM_

_We both know your fight is with me, not him._

_SH_

He texted an address and waited for a reply. He had to take the bait. He had to go him and not for John. And once again, Sherlock was going to give Mycroft the slip. He was sure to lock up the ex-consulting detective if Sherlock came out of this alive. A small price to pay for John's safety and his peace of mind.

_Very well, but if you are not on time, I'll take Captain Watson up on his offer._

_SM_

_Understood._

_SH_

Now, he better find the right armour

* * *

Sherlock decided if he survived this, he would invest in better disguises. Right now he wore an old green peacoat, with a faded shirt and trousers and a grey flatcap in an attempt to cover his hair. Having been granted time at his own flat earlier that morning, it was relatively simple to sneak past the watchful eyes of Mycroft's men. Sure they had planned for this and maybe the plan was about to be initiated a little early, but he didn't need Mycroft slowing him down. Time was of the essence.

He only hoped he would reach Moran before John.

* * *

How wonderful, both on their way to meet him, but which one should he choose? Did he meet with the doctor at Baker Street? Or Sherlock Holmes, in the empty house opposite his old flat? Or try to meet with both? The last option was more appealing. He could meet with one and let them watch the other die. Then kill the remaining victim. Now that idea showed promise.

Let them both think he would only meet with one, for now. They were in for quite the surprise. Wouldn't Jim be proud of him now?


	42. A Different Sort Of Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to have taken so long. Hope this was worth it. More coming tommorow if I can find the time. Reviews appreciated and cuddled with love.

Out of all the places he could have bombed, Sherlock had often wondered why Moriarty had chosen this one. The flats on either side were occupied, this one had not been. But then, he supposed, the message might have been skewed. It had been a warning, nothing more. Almost as if Jim had been saying  _'Look, wasn't that nice of me? I did a good, kind thing here.'_ Moriarty had had an odd idea of what was kind or nice, or good. But Sherlock had received and understood the message, though it had taken him some time. But then he'd been distracted.

The building had since been repaired. You would never know that an explosion had taken place here. But it was still empty. An empty house was a lonely house. It needed to be lived in. It was it's entire reason for being. Sherlock wondered if it had been used while he'd been away. There were signs, here and there, that it had recently had occupants. He wondered why they'd left. Better job opportunities elsewhere, perhaps. Maybe the family had grown, no more room for them all, so they had left. It was fortunate indeed that they were no longer here. It was the perfect place to meet old enemies.

* * *

The flat was quiet, the only sound was the squeaking of Sherlock's sneakers and the occasional creak of a stair as he made his way up. He'd expected more noise, the sounds of Moran above him. Perhaps he wasn't here yet. If he would appear at all. The room at the top was bare, but the dust told him everything he didn't need to know. The large window in front of him gave one the perfect view of 221b. Whose lights were on... Sherlock quickly closed the beige curtains and searched for a light switch. The bulb was in dire need of replacement but it gave him all the light he needed.

His watch told him he still had twenty minutes to spare until 10:30pm. Might as well do something to pass the time. Sitting against a wall and drawing his knees up, he pulled the packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket. He removed one and went to reach for his lighter, when he heard the familiar flick of one being lit. He allowed the strange hand to light his cigarette, before muttering a half assed thanks in reply. Moran left his lighter on Sherlock's knee and straightened. The detective puffed smoke in the assassins direction.

"Wouldn't your doctor be unhappy with you smoking again?"

"I doubt it. I am done surprising him, I'm sure." He stole a look at the smiling man in front of him. Immaculately dressed and leaning on a large black case.

"Oh. I see. Hasn't forgiven you then?"

Forgiven. To Forgive: To excuse for a fault or an offense; pardon. To renounce anger or resentment against. It was unlikely John would excuse what he'd done. It was hardly a fault or a simple transgression. And it was also unlikely that John would renounce his anger or resentment any time soon. He would probably never forgive Sherlock for what he'd done. And quite rightly too. Sherlock took a long drag of his cigarette, inhaling that familiar smoke. Another thing that John would not forgive him for. The embers glowed, illuminating his face in the darkly lit room.

"...No."

"Pity. You're looking a lot better since I last saw you."

"I would hope so."

"It's always a shame to return and find one's work undone, isn't it? You should have stayed as you were, everything would have been a lot easier for you."

This was true of course. Sherlock removed the cigarette from his mouth, letting it dangle from his fingers as he watched the smoke trails slowly rise upwards. But he hardly had had any choice in the matter. Either way, life would have been easier had he stayed as he was. He hadn't needed to come here tonight. But John's life was far too precious for him to take the risk not to.

"I had little choice. My brother can be quite persistent."

Moran was kneeling on the floor, removing items from the case and placing them to one side. "Ah yes, Mycroft Holmes. I expect I'll have to deal with him later. Does his side still hurt him?"

"More than I expect he lets on, but he has the best doctors in the country at his disposal, I am sure after all this is put to rest, the pain will be dealt with." Moran tutted and began connecting the pieces to what Sherlock suspected was his rifle.

"I don't doubt you. Now, tell me, how did your little reunion with Johnboy go? Not as well as you had hoped?"

"It is of no consequence."

"No consequence? You aren't the only one who can deduce,  _Mr_  Holmes. It's written all over your face. He rejected you, didn't he?" Sherlock didn't reply.  _I will not give him the ammo he sorely desires._

"He did, didn't he? Did it hurt? I imagine it did. You used to cry out his name at night. Do you remember? It was before you went silent of course. Such emotion. Such devotion. And all for nothing."

"For nothing?! It was worth it. Everything."

"Even the pain? The torture? For one man, Sherlock. Well two men and an old lady. No one would say you had no right to give up now. But it was all for nothing. Sure, you stopped some criminals, your brother stopped Jim's heart. But your whole goal in this was to protect John. And if you fail to do that, and you will fail, it  _will_  have been all for nothing."

* * *

The rifle was assembled now, all that was left was for Moran to set up the tripod. Sherlock would need to catch him off guard, so he let him talk. He tried not to take the words to heart. But it was true, now that he thought on it. If he failed now, then everything he had gone through would have been for nothing. Protect John. That was the only thing that mattered. No matter what the cost. John must be saved. And Mary, he supposed. John would be very upset if something happened to her. And Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Oh, and Molly too. But they weren't currently in danger. He had hoped John was safe at home, but the lights in 221b. Sherlock doubted it was because Mrs Hudson had decided to do some late night cleaning.

"We will see." Was all he replied. We will see who fails. _It will not be me._

"So confident _._ And yet, you've changed, Sherlock. Time was, you would waste your breath insulting me, all highly imaginative and clever insults they were too. You used to be very cocky. How things change."

"People change, it's in their natures."

"Not like this."

Moran drew the curtains, leaving his back unprotected, for just a half-second. But that was all Sherlock needed. How foolish of the great Sebastian to give him such an opening. He leaped forward, tackling the other man as he set up his equipment. His hands tightened round Moran's throat. Just a little more, just a little tighter. Moran grimaced and then grinned as he managed to pry one hand off his throat, bringing his knee up to push against a delicate area. Hands grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and threw him towards the wall. He hit it hard and on his side. The detective wasted no time in attempting to get up again.

There was a bang. So loud it stopped him in his tracks. Moran smiled, his handgun smoking. When, when had he taken out his weapon? I didn't see it, I didn't...what...hurts? He fell back against the wall, a strange, and yet familiar horrible burning pain, coursed through his shoulder. Like he'd been stabbed with a white hot knife. Sherlock turned to his side, his right shoulder was bleeding. Oh god. Oh fuck. Why hadn't he worn protective armour? How could have let this happen? Sherlock felt himself slump against the wall, his left hand trying to stem the bleeding.

"Sorry, mate. Don't worry, I'll put you out of your misery in a moment. Oh look, come here." Moran grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him over to the window, until they were directly in front of it. Sherlock cried out in alarm as the pain increased, Moran's hands tightening their grip.

"Oops wrong shoulder. Sorry! Look, there's Doctor Watson. Pacing, back and forth. He must have realised somethings up by now. I told him I'd meet him at the same time as you. It was a lucky coincidence that you two chose the same time. Though if you had not, I might have suggested this time anyway. More fun that way."

"You're insane."

"No, I'm not. And doesn't that scare you?"

He pushed Sherlock away, kneeling in front of the rifle, positioning until it was just right. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Sherlock made one last attempt, throwing himself at Moran, only to be thrown aside himself, his head hitting the floor hard. Moran swore and repositioned the rifle. Sherlock pulled out his phone and quickly sent a text.  _Please work. Please, please, please work._  He'd never asked the universe for anything like this before. But just this once, it would be nice if things went his way again.

He lifted his head to through the phone at Moran, but the sniper had already pulled the trigger...

No... JOHN!


	43. 221 Bad Luck Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this might not be very good, my hands are really bad tonight. I might go back over this tommorow night and fix it. But for now..
> 
> I have to make a decision about Moran. Nice and easy or gruesome and horrible. The latter will scar Sherlock terribly though.
> 
> Enjoy!

He should have known the man would never show up. But he had thought to give him the benefit of the doubt. One solider to another. So he'd arrived half an hour ahead of time. 221b was just as quite and bare as he remembered it. But certain utilities still existed in the kitchen. How british was this, making tea before meeting an assassin and possibly meeting your end? He poured himself a cup, inhaling that sweet smell and walked into the living room, sitting in his old chair and staring at the empty one in front of him. Except now he knew why it was empty, so it didn't provoke the same reaction in him anymore.

How long should he wait? How long was too long, until it was best to alert people where he was. They'd probably already noticed he was gone. He hoped they hadn't worried Mary, she been through a lot already. Hopefully, John could deal with Moran before Mycroft's people found them. That was the plan anyway. Though he wouldn't kill him, no matter how much he wanted to make that man pay for what he'd done, he didn't want to risk going to jail himself. But John wasn't above defending himself.

He took another sip of tea, sighing wistfully. Wondering if Sherlock would ever live here again. He was sure Mrs Hudson would welcome him with open arms. After she was through being angry at him. God, neither her or Lestrade even knew Sherlock was alive. Would their reactions be any better than his? Probably. With his tea finished, John began to pace around the flat. Moran should be here by now. Maybe John hadn't enticed him enough. Or perhaps Moran had deemed it too risky. John wondered if he should just wait here then, until Mycroft's people found him. But he didn't want to cause Mary anymore unnecessary worry.

He'd wait a little while longer.

Five more minutes.

* * *

His phone beeped, odd that he'd be receiving a text at this time of night. Unless it was a reprimand from Mycroft or Lestrade letting him know that he now had a bouncing baby boy. Though those two were more likely to call, not text. It could be from Mary- oh he should just look at it instead of trying to deduce who had send it. He removed it from his pants pocket, he didn't recognise the number though. John clicked and then open the message. It said two words. Just two.

_VATICAN CAMEOS_

John instinctively moved backwards and ducked, but a force, like a baseball bat being slugged at his chest, pushed him to the ground.

* * *

Sherlock felt as if he were frozen to the floor, as he watched the scene unfold. John was on the ground, John had been shot. John was... no. John had to be fine. He shook his head, have to snap out of it, have to make sure John was alright. Because of course he was alright. Sherlock went with his original plan, throwing his phone at Moran's head. It had the desired effect, though it was short lived. But Sherlock used that brief moment wisely to use what remaining strength he had to ram his fist under Moran's chin. It knocked the assassin out cold. Sherlock grabbed the rifle, so if he awoke, the sniper couldn't shoot them both from across the street. He couldn't use his phone anymore, he'd have to contact his brother from 221b.

And then he raced out of the room, his adrenaline waning by the time he reached the stairs. But he pushed himself forward. He had to keep going.

For John.

By the time he arrived at the front door of 221b, his strength had all but left him, he rested against the door for a brief moment, before he pushed it open and steadily began climbing the stairs. He fell twice, and then crawled the rest of the way up.

"JOHN! JOHN?!"

He had reached the top of the stairs and could spot John's legs on the floor. He fell to his knees in front of his friend.  _No, not John. No, no, no!_  This wasn't right. John was supposed to be safe from harm.  _  
_

"John? It's me...John?"

Johns eyes were closed, his face pale, he didn't appear to be breathing. Wake up, John. Please. He leaned forward, brushing his hand against John's neck in attempt to find a pulse. He could feel tears springing to his eyes. His mind screaming about how wrong this was. Wrong, Wrong, Wrong, Wrong!

_John...I'm sorry. I failed you._

But..

But there was a beat, John's heart was beating! Sherlock almost cheered for joy.  _John,_  he exclaimed.  _You're ok! You are going to be alright, I promise you John._

"I thought..." He couldn't bring himself to finish that sentence.

"You thought I was dead." John's croaky voice broke through his thoughts.

"John!" He could have hugged him. "No! I ...well.. for a moment.."

"Hurts.. doesn't it."

John made no move to get up, he stared at the ceiling rather than look at Sherlock. He hadn't planned to be knocked out. He didn't even know why Sherlock was here. But he was lucky to have received that text and luckier still that he'd made the decision to wear protective armour. His chest hurt like hell though, and he was sure he had a nice head wound to match. Even though he now knew what Sherlock had gone through, knew how much it had cost him, he felt a warped sort of satisfaction that Sherlock now knew how it felt to think his friend was dead. However brief it had lasted.

"...I'm sorry." Sherlock's voice was so small and sounded so far away that John had to turn his head.

"Jesus, Sherlock!"

His friend coat and shirt were soaked in his blood. Oh fuck! Why hadn't he told him he'd been shot?! Why had John not noticed! Despite the pain it caused him, John sat up, wincing, and ripped up his shirt. He pressed it against Sherlock's shoulder, it quickly went red. No, I just got you back. I'm not going to lose you this time! You are not doing this to me again.

"John..."

"Don't talk Sherlock. God, you are such an idiot, you had to go and get yourself shot, didn't you?" John's words were harsh but his voice wasn't.

"Sorry, to disappoint."

"No, don't be that way. It's not your fault." You still sound so different...

"It was a bit..."

John didn't know why he chuckled as he continued to work on Sherlock's arm and shoulder. Probably in shock. "I can believe that. Look at us both, we're such a mess."

Sherlock gave John a small smile, they were quite a sight indeed. John fell against the wall beside him, taking out his phone and texting Mycroft. He should have done that immediately, but was more concerned about all the blood on the floor than calling for help. Hopefully help would get here soon though, if it didn't... no.. he wouldn't go down that path.

"Why are you even here?"

"Had to protect you...thought I'd beat you to him."  _Oh Sherlock, you idiot._

"And did you.?" Sherlock shrugged, regretting doing so instantly.

"Perhaps I could answer that question?"

Shit. This was just not fair.


	44. An End

"It's touching really, you two. Arranging something on the same day, same time. And here you are together again. Clearly it's fate, for things to end this way."

"Well, so we finally meet. Long time no see. I suppose I have you to thank for this pain in my chest."

"I do apologies, it was supposed to kill you. But don't worry, I can fix that"

Not bloody likely, thought John.  _I won't give you the satisfaction._

As they spoke, Sherlock briefly wondered why he hadn't just shot Moran when he had the chance, and then realised it was because of John. John had been the only thing that had mattered. That and he'd been shot in his right shoulder. That certainly made things difficult. But not so now. One didn't need a fully functioning limb to shoot a sniper rifle. Well perhaps they did, but he wasn't going for a clean hole, from a far away distance. No, the person he most wished to shoot was right in front of him, standing in the door, head bleeding but with a cocky smile on his face. A smile Sherlock could remember all too well.

* * *

_"You're lucky, you know. To get his undivided attention. We're both very busy, but he's put aside time. Just for you."_

_Moran tightened the restraints that secured Sherlock's arms, almost smiling at the look of tight-lipped stubbornness. Sherlock knew he only wanted to hear him scream. They wanted to see it first hand, not just from behind closed doors and brick walls. Well, they were in for some disappointment. Not today. Not any day, would Sherlock give them what they wanted. The assassin made sure that all Sherlock's limbs were securely fastened down. And then he grinned. And Jim entered the room, something long, thin and black in his hands. He pushed the end into the pot of red hot coals, that had been sizzlingly near Sherlock's feet._

_Jim laughed, he taunted and teased. He gleefully told Sherlock everything he was going to do to him._

_And then Moran and Jim both smiled as Jim removed the brand from the fire and...and pressed it against Sherlock's foot._

_Oh god, it hurt so much._

_Oh fuck.._

_Oh-_

* * *

"Sherlock?"

Oh.

"J-john?"

John moved closer to Sherlock, he could see the other man was struggling. He had seemed to freeze for a moment, his eyes off to the side, his mouth open. It was like he wasn't even there. John could recognise the symptoms of a flashback. He'd had enough of them himself, though thankfully, not for a long time. The doctor kept his gaze on Moran, why hadn't he shot them yet? What was he waiting for? Was it his head? It was after-all, bleeding. Sherlock muttered his name, his eyes fluttering. Moran chuckled as John shook his head. Telling him to stay awake. To stay with him.

"I wouldn't bother. Everything will be over fairly shortly. Let him sleep. I was just savouring the moment. Now which of you wants to go first?" John was sure Moran had finally cracked. He sounded so much like Jim once did. All traces of the man he'd once known, was gone.

_How about you, you despicable bastard._

John raised his gun, clicking off the safety. Out of the corner of his eye he could make out Sherlock weakly raising the rifle. With his right hand by his side, he counted down the numbers, 1..2...3. And the message must have been received as they both shot at Moran, almost simultaneously. John's entered the assassin's chest, straight through the heart or near enough. Sherlock's had been aimed at the man's forehead, but his aim was off, the path diagonal, the bullet entering the man's cheek. He fell, and cliche as it sounded, it seemed to John as if it was in slow motion. The end result had left a messy stain on the walls and floor, and of course a bit spattered onto Sherlock and John.

John found himself breathing a sigh of relief. It felt as if the weight of the whole world had been lifted from his heart. He felt so light, but that could have been from his own head wound. He rested against the wall, he could hear sirens in the distance. It was about time. He rolled his head to the side, his mouth open about to ask Sherlock how he felt. His friend's eyes were closed, his mouth in a tight line. John was at his side in an instant, shaking him, shouting at him. But Sherlock didn't respond. John checked his pulse, it was very faint. And his breathing was shallow. But at least his friend was still with him.

He tried to comfort him, even though Sherlock was unconscious. Unable to benefit from it. But it comforted John. The wails of the sirens grew louder, he could see the familiar colours flashing outside.

"They're here, Sherlock. Its all over, Moran's dead. Its... over."

Oh god, it really is over. They're free aren't they? Sherlock groaned and John's happy thoughts switched to ones of concern.

"Are you with me, mate? Hey, look at me. That's good." Sherlock's eyes were partly open, confused grey orbs staying into Johns own.

"J-john." He croaked. He was so tired. But this needed to be said. Just in case...John needed to know.

"Hey, its ok. Don't speak, it can wait."  _No no, it can't_

"No. No...I'm..s-sorry." _About everything. Crappy apology, but I never claimed to be proficient at them._

"It's ok. We'll talk about it later."  _Just stay with me, Sherlock. Stay awake, help is almost here._

"...sorry." Almost like a whisper.

"No, no Sherlock you have to stay awake. Look at me, Sherlock. Damn it."

"SHERLOCK!"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> APOLOGIES ABOUT THE QUALITY AND MORANS UNDRAMATIC DEATH. It was going to be gruesome but I wasn't sure if that was realistic enough, idk what two guns do to a body.
> 
> Apologies again for any mistakes, grammar, spelling, medical. My hands are itching so badly at the moment I had to keep stopping.
> 
> Not long left now. But...if anyone wants spoilers, you know where to find me.
> 
> Also, semi-related. I will shortly be doing a few posts about my cat, Keiko. As it will be a year since she died. So if you are interested, because she inspired Milton. Let me know.
> 
> ENJOY
> 
> OR CRY
> 
> OR WHATEVER.
> 
> Probably cry.
> 
> That seems to happen a lot when people read my fics.
> 
> (secretly pleased)


	45. A New Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im going to try and include some of my hospital experiences in the next few chapters. Ive been in hospital quite a few times in my life XD. Though ive never been on strong enough painkillers that i was 'out of it'. Even after surgery, im very lucid.
> 
> If you are curious to which experiences are mine, feel free to ask :).
> 
> Ok weve had the hurt, now its time for the comfort.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Sherlock was floating._

_He was floating on a white cloud and wrapped in it's tendrils. He felt warm and he felt content._

_John was with him. Sherlock could see him floating next to him. On his own cloud. He was smiling, a white bandage was around his head. He was talking but it all sounded like white noise. Sherlock smiled back. His friend reached over and clasped his hand. Sherlock wanted to say something, but the words wouldn't come, so he let John hold his hand as he slowly closed his eyes._

_This felt nice. He felt relaxed, more relaxed than he had been in a long time._

_Could he stay he forever?_

* * *

_They were in 221b. John was making tea, the TV was playing a stupid soap opera. Sherlock was sitting in his chair with Milton on his lap, who was purring contently._

_All was right with the world._

* * *

As John lay in his own hospital bed, the days events repeated themselves in his head. He'd come so close to loosing his friend again, and may yet. Somewhere, in another part of the hospital, Sherlock was being operated on. He'd been shot in the shoulder. There was now a red stain on the floor of 221b. But he would pull through. John knew he would. Because the alternative was something he didn't want to think about. He turned over in the bed, wincing as pain shot through his chest. Fuck, shouldn't have done that.

He eased himself onto his back again. He had a bruise, to end all bruises, on his chest. And a rib had decided to be fractured. John needed stronger painkillers. He could press the call button. But the nurse who had been in here earlier had been a horror. There's always one rude, inconsiderate, bullying nurse. In every hospital. Probably more than one. Sherlock never seemed to get them. Only John. They were most likely, afraid of Sherlock. John was fair game.

He wished Mary was here. She'd left an hour ago, visiting hours were over. She'd been...angry was an understatement. But he supposed they were even now. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Tried not to think about Sherlock.

* * *

When he opened his eyes, he recoiled. Mycroft was sitting in a chair by his side, a file on his lap and a tablet in his hands. The umbrella was leaning against the bed. John considered kicking it off, but he was stopped by Mycroft's eyes. Watching him, deducing him. Well he could take those deductions and shove them up his...John grimaced and glared at the unwelcome intrusion to his hospital life. Mycroft closed the tablet and put it on the little bedside table. A glass of water and a tub of green jelly was waiting for him.

"She brought it over about twenty minutes ago. She said if you were up to it, later she would bring you a menu."

"Why are you here?" He let Mycroft hand him the jelly and opened the lid. He quite liked jelly, raspberry was his favourite though. He guessed this must be lime. Sherlock liked lime. When he was bothered to eat anything.

"I came to see you. And check on Sherlock's progress." That made John sit up straighter, which he regretted.

"How is he?"

"Not out of the woods yet. He's in intensive care for today and tonight. If they are satisfied with his progress they will move him somewhere else tomorrow. But they would prefer for him to regain consciousness first. He lost a lot of blood, John."  _I know, fuck I know. Half of it was on me when you lot came._

"Can I see him?"

"Perhaps in the afternoon. If your doctor's say its alright. They want to keep you for observation tonight." John felt like the conversation on that matter was no closed. But Mycroft had more to say.

He placed a file on John's lap as the doctor finished the last of the jelly and took some painkillers with his water. Something stronger would have been preferred. John opened the file, it was Moran's. DECEASED was stamped across his face.

"It's a pity you had to kill him. Someone needed to answer for those crimes. But at least, he can't hurt anyone anymore. And the world will know what he did. What they all did. Moriarty's people. We will have to figure out how to explain Sherlock's death to the public. But I will leave that up to him, when he recovers." John handed Mycroft back the file, who lifted a briefcase up from the floor and placed it inside.

"It's over. Isn't it? For real this time. Its over."

"Yes John. You can breathe easy now." Thank God.

"I will leave you be, for now. I have work to attend too. I will relay your request to Sherlock's doctors. Good day, John. And thank you. If you had not escaped and gone after Moran...I dread to think what might have happened."

He picked up his umbrella and was about to leave the room before he turned around, a small smile on his face.

"Lestrade is here. By the way." Why? To see John? He didn't know Sherlock was alive, did he?

"Why? Is everything ok?" John was alarmed.

"Oh yes, his wife is in labour. Good morning!"


	46. Coffee, Conversations and Christie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a crap filler before some big events. I can't make it any better. I do apologise! Why don't you spend the time imagining Lestrade's baby? Or his face when he learns Sherlock is alive. How will he react? And what about Miss Hudson? What will Sherlock's reaction be to the baby?
> 
> TUNE IN NEXT TIME ON...
> 
> ANDTHESTARSSHONEBRIGHTLY!

After much debate with both his and Sherlock's doctors, John was finally allowed to see his friend. He looked so small in that hospital bed. Covered in more tubes and wires, than seemed necessary. His skin was almost the same colour has the sheets. A small, familiar orange blanket was draped over the hospital ones, tucked neatly around his body. Sherlock's arms rested on top of the blankets. He was far too thin. When he woke up, they would have to have a talk about proper eating habits. John deposited himself slowly, into one of the chairs next to his friend's bed. They were more comfortable than regular hospital chairs.

"Sherlock?"

"Never mind, you're asleep. Just wishful thinking. Listen, you need to wake up, alright? You aren't allowed to scare me again. We have a lot to talk about. A lot of things we need to resolve. I'm still very angry, Sherlock. And I have every right to be. But, I need to talk to you, so the anger can be drained away, bit by bit."

He reached over and took one of those pale hands in his own and held it tightly.  _I know you can hear me, you selfish bastard. You better wake up. Don't do this to me. You have so much to live for. So don't even bloody think about giving up. You hear me?!_ He sighed, his friend's hand was so limp. John gently placed it back on the bed, his mind focusing on the beeps coming from one of the monitors. His heart beat. He spent almost twenty minutes listening to it, before opening the book he'd brought with him and beginning to read.

It was Murder on the Orient Express.

* * *

_Sherlock could hear John's voice, somewhere above him. It was soft, but understandable. He seemed to be reading to him, a story that Sherlock was not familiar with. But then there were many works of fiction he had never bothered to read. This was mildly interesting. Enough to keeping listening in any case. Though it seemed to be a mystery, the plot was remarkably easy to follow._

_He didn't know where he was, but he felt safe. And he had not felt safe in a very long time._

* * *

Greg needed a coffee. Scratch that, he needed two coffees. If the hospital here could inject caffeine directly into his body, all his problems would be solved. He hadn't slept more than a few hours. For a few days. But this wasn't all about him. His darling wife was so close to giving birth. Soon he'd be cradling his son in his arms. She'd kicked him out of her room, because he'd been asleep on his feet. And now, he was standing in front of the coffee machine, trying to remember what it was he wanted. Black coffee? Cappuccino? That sounded right.

"Greg?"

"John!" He took a sip of of his coffee and swore. He'd just burnt his tongue. Fuck cheap coffee.

"You alright?"  _Wipe that smile of yourself, mate._

"'S hot."

"No shit."

The two men chuckled and Greg waved John over so they could sit in one of the nearby waiting rooms.

"So, how are you?"

Ok, so it was a little stupid to ask. John had to be here because he'd either run off like Mycroft thought he would, or the man everyone had been after, had come after John instead. Either way, he looked as if he'd come out on top. None too worse for wear. John responded with a half-smile and a shrug.

"A little sore, but I'll be alright."

"Glad to hear it. Listen, I have to get back to Anna in a moment, don't want to miss the big moment."

"Oh that's right, Mycroft told me. How's everything going?"

"Don't ask me. Just don't ask me. I feel useless. She's doing all the work and all I'm doing is holding her hand and falling asleep standing up." John laughed. How cruel.

"You didn't.."

"I bloody did! Nurses wouldn't stop laughing. Thought I better fetch myself something that will wake me up. This better work."

"I'm sure it will, Greg."

The detective inspector downed the last of the horrid, boiling liquid and threw it in the bin beside them. He stood, straightening his wrinkled clothes and gave John a scared look.

"I'm terrified John. What if something goes wrong? You ever deliver a baby before?"

"Once. I was just as terrified as the mother. Things will be fine, listen. After the baby's born, do you mind if we talk in private? Only I have something important to tell you. But I don't want to you worry about while you're...worrying about other things."  _I want you to have this moment for yourself, not spoil it with Sherlock's resurrection. Though I'm sure you will be happy...eventually._

"Sure thing, mate. You better head back to your room, I'll go to mine. You look dead on your feet."

"You don't look any better."

"Thanks, that really helps."

John clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Good luck."

"Thanks, John."

* * *

"You will stop this foolishness. It's is time to wake. And you will promise to keep yourself out of trouble for at least the next 6 months. Is that clear? Look at this? It's grey hair Sherlock. I am too old to repeatedly lose my brother again and again. I dread to think what it has done to me in the long run. So wake up."

* * *

_Shut up Mycroft._


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, short and not perfect and probably unimaginative XD. Hopefully I can make a better 50th chapter.
> 
> Holy crap...50. Dude thats like...120-130 chapters? Holy crap. Thats more words than like.. idk.
> 
> Also i have made three posts on tumblr, about Keiko. The cat Milton is based on. It was the anniversary of her death yesterday. If you are interestedi can try and link you in pm.
> 
> Anyway Enjoy.
> 
> Or don't.
> 
> XD

Several hours later...

* * *

"Push! Push! Just a little bit more, that's right. Almost there!"

So close. It's so close. Oh god, in a few minutes he'd have a son. He held onto his wife's hand, his other arm around her shoulders. Anna latched on with a vice like grip, her face red, sweating, contorted with pain. But god, she was so beautiful. He whispered sweet nothings into her ear. Greg felt perfectly useless, she was doing everything and all he could do was try and comfort her.

And then...a cry...

"Congratulations! You have a beautiful baby boy!" Oh god, oh...wow. Just...Greg was lost for words.

He hugged his wife, kissing her on her forehead, her cheek and then her lips. You did it, he whispered. We did it, she replied, kissing his nose and sinking into his arms. He had a son. He finally, after years of wanting, had the child he had always dreamed of. The midwife took their little boy aside, to check everything was in order. It didn't matter, he was perfect in Greg's eyes already.

"Here you go."

The nurse smiled, wrapping up little Rupert in a cream coloured blanket, a little yellow beanie on his head. She gently placed him on Anna's chest, his little fist unfurling to lay against her breast. He was so small...so pink and healthy. Greg's darling wife turned to her husband. A look of pure love in her eyes. For her Greg and her Rupert.

"He's perfect."

"Yes, he is. Do you want to hold him?" Can I? Oh please.

When Anna placed his new son in his arms, Greg was afraid he'd start shaking and drop him. He cradled him against his chest. Two hands, ten fingers. Two feet, ten toes. Little button nose, rosy cheeks and a mop of dark hair, resembling a mohawk. And those two blue eyes, gazing into his own.

"He has your eyes." Anna smiled.

"Hey little guy. I'm your daddy. Happy birthday." He smiled down at his new son, his eyes filling with tears. He had a son. He was real.

Little Rupert made a squeaking sound and curled his little fist around Lestrade's finger. What a grip he had! Strong arms, strong little hands. Slowly, Greg made his way to the chair behind him, a nurse pushing it so he could sit next to his wife. She looked incredibly tired, which was understandable. He kissed her again, telling her to rest, while he looked over the little guy. She smiled at both of them, yawning loudly enough to wake up little Rupert.

Maybe he could take him to visit John tomorrow.

And one day...Sherlock.

* * *

His whole body felt heavy and...dull. Numb.

His eyelids felt like anvils. Not literally mind you, but so heavy, they might as well have been. Where was he? His senses felt wrong. When he finally managed to pry open one eye, it took longer than usual for him to deduce that it was in a hospital. He should have known. He'd been in enough of them already. Drugs. They must have drugged him, perhaps some strong painkiller. They didn't normally work, because of his history with...certain substances. In this case they must have, but were slowly wearing off. Just as well he had decided to wake up now.

Sherlock attempted to sit up, or at least lift his head, but pain shot through his shoulder and decided against that idea. Strong hands pushed him back and fixed the bedding. They then gently lifted his head and placed an ice chip near his lips. Sherlock opened his mouth, allowing the hand to place it on his tongue. That felt nice. His throat had felt so dry. Perhaps he could have another. Wait...

"J-john?"

"Hey, easy there. Don't get up." John placed another ice chip on his tongue.

"...hurts." God, it really does now. Fuck.

"Ok, Ok, I'll get someone to do something about that, you just wait here." John turned to get out of his chair and felt something pull against his jumper. He looked down to see Sherlock's pale hand latching onto the wool. He then seemed quite embarrassed and let go.

"I'll be back soon, Sherlock. Don't worry."

Don't go...

_You will come back...won't you?_

* * *

When Sherlock's pain medication was sorted out, the detective's eyes drifted close and he went back to sleep. Just as well, thought John. He was no doubt in a lot of pain. Better he rest now, he would only put it off if he were coherent enough. John decided to stay for another hour before heading home, he was about to be kicked out anyway.  _I wonder if Anna has given birth yet? Greg is going to be thrilled. He's perfect to be a father._ John would quite like a child or two of his own one , he would hope to be a better father than his own. Not that he'd been a horrible father. But there were a few things John didn't agree with. Well.. more than just a few. But he had a long time to perfect parental techniques.

Deciding on a whim to stroll past maternity, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lestrade, Anna, and hopefully Rupert, John made his way down the corridor. Trying not to look as if he were looking into ever second room. Eventually he gave up, checking his watch, it was late. He should get home. John did an abrupt turn and pulled out his mobile. He should text her. Let her now he'd be back home soon and would she like him to pick up a takeaway?

"John?"


	48. Hello Rupert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY ITS SO SHORT!
> 
> But I couldn't add anymore after the last line. The next will be longer I promise!
> 
> ENJOY

* * *

"Greg?"

Turning around, surprised but pleased, John was greeted by the sight of a tiny person curled up in his friend's arms. Oh..she'd had the baby already. Greg looked like he'd been crying, no wonder, he finally had the child he'd always dreamed of. John inspected the little one, it had bright blue eyes and a mop of hair. The child stared back, probably wondering who the hell this new person was. Oh probably wondering when his next meal was.

"Boy or girl?" He'd been told it would be a boy, but you never knew with babies, sometimes mistakes were made.

"Boy." Greg was beaming.

"Congratulations mate! You're a dad! How do you feel?"

"Scared shitless."

"Sounds about right." Lestrade chuckled and jerked his head in the direction of a small empty waiting room.

The two, or three if you counted the baby, sat down on a comfy, but hideously yellow, sofa.

"You sticking with that name then?"

"Yeah... it's grown on me." John smiled and tickled the tiny feet that had slipped out of his blanket.

"Hello Rupert. It's very nice to meet you." John shook his small hand, the fingers curled around his index finger.

John felt something flip in his chest. This was new life. A life just beginning. It was beautiful. He'd seen so much death. It was nice to see the opposite. He could tell Greg felt the same way.

"Rupert, this is your Uncle John." Rupert responded with a gurgle and tried to stuff a fist in his mouth.

John chuckled and patted Lestrade on the back. He found himself torn with the knowledge of Sherlock in the back of his mind and this new little being who made his friend so happy. Could he really tell him now and shatter this moment? Or should he wait a few days? On the one hand to interrupt such a happy time in Greg's life was a horrible idea. But on the other hand he knew the moment Greg found out he'd be pissed about not being told earlier. And John wasn't sure how long it would be till he saw him again.

Decisions could be a bitch.

* * *

"You alright mate?"

"Huh? Yeah...yeah I'm fine. Absolutely fine. Couldn't be better."  _Shut up now, John._

"Bullshit, mate."

"Should you really be swearing around a child,  _Greg_?"

"He's just been born, I doubt he understands a word we're saying. And if he does he's smarter than me." Lestrade eyed John with a look of suspicion.

"No.. I'm fine, really."

"Look...John. I can tell something's bothering you. We're alone right now, Rupert's falling off to sleep, you can tell me what's bothering you."

"I really can't."

"John, I know you've been mixed up in a lot of shit lately which is no fault of your own. You have Mary but I'm here too if you need me." _He really wants to know, doesn't he? But I can't do that to him. Not now._

John stood as if he were preparing to leave, but then begun to pace, mirroring Rupert by placing his fist in his mouth. Frustrated, torn, confused but also the closeness of revealing Sherlock to another person was so close. Lestrade did deserve to know. Moran was gone. The danger to Greg was gone. The only thing stopping John from telling him was himself. He thought it would have been a no-brainer but once he was faced with the opportunity he panicked. What if Lestrade reacted just as badly as he did? And John would have to explain everything Sherlock had been through and John's own rocky relationship with him now.

Which was sitting on a knife edge really. Teetering between cutting all ties and hugging him because he was so fucking glad he was alive. But also pissed about everything else. He couldn't think about his friend without a mix of annoying and probably complex emotions. Everything with Sherlock had to be difficult. The Old Sherlock was gone and the new one was so vulnerable. But that didn't change what he did. _Urgh, stop thinking about it, John! You can focus on it later when you're at home and Mary's hidden the gun._

"John?" He could do this...he could do this right now and get it all off his chest.

"Ok. Uh.. but I better hold the baby."

Lestrade, mystified but intrigued, and a tiny bit worried, gently placed his child in John's waiting arms. The doctor stopped pacing and sat in a chair opposite to Greg's own. Ok. This was going to be hard. Should he just come right out and say it? Why didn't he think about how to reveal the detective earlier? Oh right, Moran.

"Um, this is going to be hard to believe, but just hear me out ok?"

"John?"

"Sherlock's...alive."


	49. Bloody Idiot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REVEAL PART 2? 3? CHAPTER!
> 
> WARNING BOTH JOHN AND GREG SWEAR.
> 
> BABY DOES NOT LIKE
> 
> ENJOY

 "...What?"

"You heard me...he's not dead. Look I only found out recently myself. And its all very complicated. But I thought now that Moran was dead you deserved to know."

"...You're joking. Right? This is a joke." He faked a laugh, his eyes hurt.

"Greg.."

"It's not bloody funny!"

"I know!" Rupert blinked and let out a wail. What do I do? Ok, calm down, it's alright. He sshed the infant and tried to mirror what he'd seen others do to calm down children. "But it's true..."

Silence.

_Shit, did I kill him? He's not moving...oh wait...nevermind._

Greg's fists were clenching and unclenching, shaking, most likely with fury. He was biting his lower lip and staring at the wall. He looked as taut as a violin string. And then suddenly he took a breath and relaxed. The Inspector looked at John with a mixture of anger disbelief and confusion. Sherlock was..alive? That didn't make sense. He'd seen the body. He'd helped to bury it. He'd cleared the boy's name. He'd fucking named his son after him.

And he wasn't even dead?

"Tell me everything."

* * *

Where should he even start? He barely knew everything himself. He would just have to go with what Mycroft had told him and leave it at that for now.

"Look...he knew back then, on the roof, that there was a possibility he wouldn't make it out alive. He guessed Moriarty's plans, I suppose. He arranged things so that if he had to fake his death, it would be as realistic as possible. And we both know why he felt he had no choice."

"...Fuck we do, don't we. Those bloody snipers."

"Yes well..after that I think he waited a bit before going to Mycroft. Still had trust issues. And then...as hard as it is to believe. He travelled the world with Mycroft's men, helping to capture Moriarty's."

"Shit...really? No...really?" It seemed hard to believe. What would Sherlock gain from doing that.

"Yeah...and the reason he couldn't tell us is because those men were still watching. Any inkling that Sherlock was alive and they had orders to shoot us. Moriarty took no chances." Shit kid.  _Why? Why'd you do it? Why'd you do it all by yourself? Could have helped..._

"..And this...Moran bloke...he worked for Moriarty, right?"

"Yeah, second in command."

"And he's definitely dead."

"Absolutely."

Silence.

"And how are you taking this?"

"Terribly."

"Right."

...

"I think you're mental." John couldn't help it, he chuckled. Either Lestrade didn't believe him and thought he'd cracked, or he did and couldn't believe John would still go after a man that wanted to shoot him, after everything he'd gained.

Greg smiled. "He's really alive?"

"Yeah...he's in this hospital actually." The smile fell.  _Ooops. Probably shouldn't have said that._

"What? This one? What happened?! Is he ok?" Well he got over his disbelief easy.

"Calm down. Yes this one. He got...he got shot."

"What?!" Shit, keep quiet Greg, you're pissing off your own kid here.

"Sssh."

"Sorry, sorry. He got shot?"

"Technically speaking so did I, but I was wearing protection. Sherlock wasn't. I've been assured he will make a full recovery. You are not to go see him."

"Why shouldn't I? Bloody idiot." John shook his head. He couldn't bring himself to explain what had happened to Sherlock. Though Lestrade would surely discover things for himself in due course.

"Because he's not really up for visitors yet. I'm allowed, but he was barely conscious when I saw him."

"Fuck.."

"Greg. Promise me you won't see him."

"I can't John. But I'll keep it in mind. It's not that I don't believe you, but...I need to see him with my own eyes. Can you understand that?" _Yeah...that makes sense._ He nodded, deciding it was time to hand back a bemused and upset baby to it's father.

"I get it Greg. It's just...complicated."

"I know. God, with him it's never ever simple." John managed a small smile at that. Very true.

"Well.. I better get this one back to his mum. Look, John. This...is a lot to take in. And I can't decide who to be more pissed at right now, so I'm going to go. You and I and Sherlock the idiot, will be having a chat very soon."  _God, he sounds like a dad already._

"Sure, whatever you say." God, no. "Nice meeting you Rupert. Greg."

"I'm glad you're alright John."

"Me too. Later, mate."

"Bye."

* * *

Fuck.

Just...

Fuck.

He was getting too old for this. His hair couldn't get anymore grey than it already was.


	50. Hospitals Are Boring..And Lonely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Craptacular. Probably not the chapter you were wanting. But ssssh, sssh. All in good time.
> 
> ENJOY

 

"Ah, the sleeping prince finally awakes from his slumber."  _Shut up Mycroft._

"No comment? How do you feel?"  _Horrible, lousy, shit, in pain._

"Fine."

"I doubt that very much. Because once again you have landed yourself in trouble. This just has to stop, Sherlock. I have a mind to lock you in a pillow filled room for the rest of the year."  _Can we have this talk later. I just woke up..._

"Mycroft..."

"No, it absolutely must stop!"

"I can't help it..."

"Yes you can. You never look before you leap, you never have! Sherlock...you're all I have left..."  _Mycroft..._

"Can we talk about this later..."

Mycroft sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He truly couldn't take much more of this. But he knew it would be almost impossible to stop Sherlock running into trouble. He could lessen the damage, but that was all. Though this time was not really his fault. But it was almost as if he had a death wish. That he didn't care if he lived or died. And that worried Mycroft greatly. Because he knew Sherlock wanted to live, but this business with John's rejection and hatred and anger. It had deeply hurt Sherlock. How many times had he said John would reject him? And yet when he did, all that preparation was for nothing.

"Very well. I will let the nurse know you are awake. And I expect you to eat anything they put in front of you."

"...fine."  _I know plenty of places to dispose of it._

"Good. I only worry because you're my brother Sherlock. I care about you."

"I said fine."

"I will see you later.." He sighed and picked up his umbrella, then left the room.

* * *

They didn't let him have solid food right away. Perhaps for tea, they said. Instead he would have to make do with horrible tomato soup and rubbery jelly. It tasted like medicine and the soup had that awful skin on it. It was quite easy to dispose of it down the little sink in his room. The tea that night wasn't much better. Some mashed potatoes, carrots that tasted like cardboard, clearly cooked for far too long. And some sort of sliced meat. He wasn't sure what it was exactly. This was harder to hide than the liquids, but he was nothing if not inventive.

Later they brought him ice cream. He was quite fond of the strawberry.

He received no further visitors.

Nor did he in the next three days.

It made things terribly boring. Especially when sitting up for too long hurt his shoulder and he would spend half the day sleeping because there was little else to do. The only highlight of his day was when they brought his food. Not because of the food, but it gave him new people to deduce. But too quickly would they leave, and he was all alone again. It wasn't as if he was expecting people to visit him. But it would have been nice. Even though most people thought he was dead. That did put a damper on things.

But not a single visitor. Not John, not Mycroft. Not even Mary. No one. It ...hurt. Just a little. John he understood. John still hated him. And Mycroft was most likely busy. He probably had hidden cameras all over this place to keep an eye on his baby brother. Mary was probably taking care of John. So it made sense for him to be alone. Everyone had things to do, people to see. And these things had nothing to do with him.

* * *

He did recieve a text message on the forth day. It was from Mycroft. He hoped Sherlock was well and obeying his doctor's orders. He was, for the most part. The message went on to say,  _'apologies for telling you so late, but Lestrade's child has finally been born'._ Was this the one he'd partly named after him? The poor child. Who'd want his name? Well, Lestrade would no doubt be overjoyed. He'd always wanted children. At least Sherlock had the excuse that he'd been shot, and oh, everyone thought he was dead. So he didn't have to provide the infant with any gifts or pretended he knew anything about it.

Kids weren't his area. They were noisy and sticky and the younger ones often smelt. The older ones were rude and the younger ones had no sense of personal space. They always seemed to like Sherlock for reasons unknown. He wouldn't know what to do if he had to look after a child. There were probably books on the subject. They had to be fed often, and on no account should they be fed sugar. People always spoke down to them, Sherlock was of the opinion that if they didn't understand big words it was they own problem. Or their parents for not bothering to teach them.

But he was certain Lestrade would be a good father. Frankly any one but his own was probably capable of being a good father. Lestrade wasn't likely to force his child to play a sport against his will. Or hit his child. No, he wasn't one of those sorts of people. He'd be an easy going father. Sherlock wasn't too much familiar with his wife, but from what he'd heard, she seemed to be a good, no nonsense sort of woman. And John would probably be the infants uncle or godfather or something ridiculous like that. It would be good for John. He liked kids. He wanted them.

He would probably have them one day too...

* * *

It took every once of restraint for Greg not to go running off in search for Sherlock bloody Holmes. He waited several days before striking up the nerve to ask a nurse if she knew what room he was in. A private room of course. Bloody Holmes'. He debated on whether to bring Rupert. But felt it important for Sherlock to meet him. He wouldn't yell at him. No today. No, he'd wait until he was released from hospital, then he would give him the riot act.

Anna was all to happy to spare Rupert for awhile, especially when she learnt the reason why. "It would be good for him. To see the baby." She didn't explain why. Nor had she seemed incredibly surprised to learn he was alive. She hadn't really met him though.

She was probably right. Sherlock should see the life he helped bring into this world. If he hadn't jumped for Greg, Rupert might not be here at all. And it would take his mind off how much he hated being in hospital. There were several other reasons floating in his mind, but none put themselves together to for a coherent thought. Rupert squirmed in his blanket, trying to get his feet out. Failing to do so, he sucked his fist and stared up at his father.

"Come on sport, let's go say hello to your other uncle."

* * *

Sherlock looked up.

There was a knock at the door.


	51. Rupert, Meet Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took awhile. It's not perfect. Think of it as the reunion is half over. I have a mind to bring Greg back in later and let Sherlock cry into his shoulder. Just so he knows Sherlock isn't the same as before.
> 
> So here's this not perfect or great semi reunion chapter.

 

He wasn't sure what he expected to be on the other side of that door. It was too early for one meal, too late for another. Mycroft usually gave him some sort of warning. He highly doubted it was John. He hadn't heard so much as a text from him. Or Mary. So all deductions aside, who could it be? When the door opened, Sherlock wished he could take a step back. But he was sitting cross-legged on a bed with a set of playing cards in front of him. Because the person on the other side of the door frame wasn't supposed to know he was alive. However he clearly hadn't come here by accident. He didn't seem the least bit surprised. And he was carrying a squirming blanket. He'd brought the baby. Wonderful.

_Well say something then. I know you are dying to._

Lestrade was speechless. It was one thing to know someone previously dead was, in fact, very much alive. It was quite another to see them in the flesh. It was really him though. He was really there, alive and...mostly well. In blue stripped pyjama pants and a grey top that hung off the shoulder covered in bandages. His toes twitched, his hands hovering over the cards spread out on his bed. His face, for once, in complete shock. That wasn't a look one often saw on the face of Sherlock Holmes. The formally ex-detective, closed his mouth and swallowed, his eyes resting on the bundle Greg carried. Lestrade took that moment to step inside and close the door. There was a very nice armchair next to the bed. This room looked ridiculously expensive.

Sherlock still hadn't said anything. A million thoughts were running through his head, why was he here? Who told him? No that was obvious, John told him. But why had he come? To stare? To yell? With a child though, yelling would not be advisable. To say hello? Plausible, but unnecessary. At least John had saved him from making the decision of  _when_  to tell the DI. That was one less thing he had to do. He wasn't planning to tell Anderson and Donavon. So that really left Mrs Hudson now. Though Mycroft had been not so subtly suggesting it be released to the media. No. Why bother? The media wasn't to be trusted and who said he'd be going back to his old profession anyway?

"Sherlock." Ah finally, he speaks.

"Lestrade" Sherlock responded in a quiet voice, his eyes back on the cards. Don't make eye contact. Maybe he'll go away?

Greg took a breath. This was going about as well as he had expected. What does a person say to an ex-corpse?  _Hi, you look great, last time I saw you, you looked dead? You had a crack in your head? You look great for someone who fell several stories into the pavement. Though, you still look like shit, kid. Didn't anyone ever teach you how to stay out of trouble?_ Someone had to say something and he knew that someone would not be Sherlock Holmes. But Greg sure as hell was not going to sit here for an hour in silence.

"You aren't surprised I know."

"No. Obvious. John."

It could have been Mycroft. That thought had occurred to him. But it was unlikely. Mycroft hated hospitals and would have at least waited several weeks after a baby before telling Greg. No. John was the only possibility. He and Lestrade had grown close in Sherlock's absence. Which made sense. They got closer to each other and drifted away from him. He wasn't sure why John had told him so soon, but he most likely didn't want Greg to have to wait to find out like he did. Greg nodded to himself and smiled. Of course Sherlock knew. He missed nothing.

"I still can't believe you're really here. He told me, but I wasn't sure I really believed him, but here you are."  _Yes, and isn't here wonderful?_

"Sorry." Sherlock thought he better get that out in the open pretty early in the conversation. Not that it had helped last time.

"For what? We know why you jumped Sherlock. Sorry for lying? Sorry for breaking people's hearts, sorry for causing everyone so much grief? Sorry for not trusting us? Is that what you're sorry about?"

It was the fact that he said it so calmly and so kindly, that made it hurt the most. Sherlock winced. He would rather Greg had yelled than quietly pick at him with words. He hadn't released he was so skilful at it. That was Sherlock's area of expertise. But he nodded and looked away. Did he have time to run to the lavatory and lock the door? Probably not. Worth considering though.

"Are you even listening to me?"  _Yes, I hardly have a choice. But no one said I have to answer._

"I'm very angry Sherlock, but I know now is not the time to speak about it. I also know you probably had no choice in the matter. Still, you could have dropped us a line. You forget, you're a civilian, we aren't." He speaks for John as well. He doesn't know John has already made his feelings known...

"I wanted you to know...that I'm glad you're alive and well. Despite getting yourself shot, that was stupid." Sherlock decided to grace him with the look he gave the doctors when they wanted to run a test and take some blood. But Lestrade was already accustomed to that look, and even missed it.

"Won't work on me sunshine. It  _was_  stupid and you know it. Anyway, I also wanted you to know that without you, I wouldn't have had this little guy."

Greg stood and placed the bundle in Sherlock's arms, who looked up at him in a panic.  _Why would you give me the baby to hold? I know nothing about babies, where are my hands supposed to go? Take back your spawn, I am the last person who should be holding it. Why is it looking at me like that? Stop it. It's very rude to stare._ He was so small. The baby gurgled and blew a bubble with it's mouth. He wrapped his tiny fist around Sherlock's finger. This was Lestrade's child. He'd made this. A tiny human person. The bubble popped and the infant made a surprised then sad sound. He must have wanted to keep the bubble.

Sherlock looked up at Greg, who had quietly adjusted his hand so that he held the baby correctly. He was smiling and there was a tear in his eye. Why was he crying?

"Crying..."

"Am I? Sorry, been an emotional couple of weeks."  _And my two sons are together. Wish I had a camera._

"You should take him, babies aren't my area."

"No, you keep him for a little longer, mate. My arms need a rest. You're doing just fine."  _Why did you bring him here?_

"Did you really name him Rupert Sherlock?"

"Of course! Got a problem have you?" Several...

"It's...Sherlock isn't a good name you know."

"It's your name. And you were dead, so you missed the deadline for your opinions." Right. Worth a try.

"But why..."

"Because I told you. If it weren't for you, I'd be dead. And it was done in your honour so you better be bloody grateful."

_I'm not crying. My eyes are just tired._

* * *

 

"You look like shit. So I'm going to go and let you have some rest."

He was just getting used to holding the baby too. It was easy when they fell asleep in your arms. Did they dream? They would be innocent dreams. No nightmares would fuel them. No past mistakes would haunt them. And no painful moment would torture them over and over again until they woke up screaming. No, if babies dreamed, it would be of innocent things, things that weren't even things yet. Because they were so young, their comprehension of the world was limited. They were so lucky.

Sherlock handed Rupert back and yawned. It wasn't even that late. But then he had had a restless night the night before. Lestrade at on the bed next to him and ruffled his hair. He looked concerned. Sherlock wondered again if he knew. If John had told him everything. Why else would he look so worried? He didn't even know that the fact he hadn't yelled at him and rejected him had lifted something in his heart. He expected a stern talking to later on of course. It had been promised. But Lestrade cared. He wanted Sherlock to still be in his life. That was good. That was wonderful. Even if it was in everyone's best interest if he stayed away. 

So why did he want to cry?

"Sherlock... you alright mate?"

"Fine, I'm fine. Go. I'm...tired." You human mate, get some sleep. But you aren't fine. I'm not stupid. We will be talking about this.

"Alright. Get some rest. It was bloody good seeing you again." Likewise.

"Goodbye Lestrade.....and...Rupert."

Greg shut the door and Sherlock threw the cards on the floor. He curled up in bed and wiped his eyes.

He wouldn't cry. 

* * *

Greg didn't realise until later that the normally verbose, to the point it was hard to shut him up, detective had barely spoken. Except for the questions about the child, compared to how much he would normally say, unless in a sulk or a pensive mood, he had been very quiet.

That was very unlike Sherlock. But he was probably just over thinking things. 

Sherlock was fine.


	52. Everyone Seriously Needs A Holdiday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little filler chapter. and a hey what happened to those characters.
> 
> Did you know this fic is more popular than the other? If reviews are anything to go by. You people are awesome. (mainly for ff.net people, does anyone an AO3 even read this? lol)
> 
> This isn't good and again never beta'd :( but it was all i could whip up on short notice. The muse pokes me till I post. Last night it was Mycroft with a dvd player, this time it was Sherlock having a pity party.
> 
> Enjoy.

* * *

In many ways, James Moriarty had been a teacher. He'd taught Sherlock about love and loss. How much he cared for John and how much he cared for those he didn't realise he considered were close to him. Jim had taught him about fear and pain. But also, in many ways, how to overcome that pain. How to keep moving forward. And how to achieve your ultimate goal. His lessons hurt, and they had stuck within his mind. Try as he might, he could not dislodge them. A good teacher indeed. But was he a good student? He was sure a 'teacher' existed who was far better than Jim Moriarty.

Not that he needed teaching. He could learn things for himself.

* * *

They told him he could leave at any time, and he was practically out the door before they'd even finished. He ignored Mycroft's advice to stay at the manor. Sherlock had his own apartment, no matter how drab and boring it was. It was his and no one else's. Except perhaps Mycroft...who paid for it. Besides it had plenty of surveillance, enough to placate his brother. And there was Milton, also. Of course Molly had been looking after him. Apparently Irene had tried to help, but according to Molly, she wasn't very good with animals. Really? She spent a better part of her life answering to their needs. But then Milton didn't warm up to just anyone. Molly was still at the apartment when he arrived. She'd...'tidied up'. That was unnecessary. What was she even implying?

"Oh and here's someone who's been anxious to see you again." She smiled too sweetly for Sherlock's taste. It was sincere but sickening.

Milton purred as she placed him in his arms. He doubted the cat had been anxious. He would have possibly noticed Sherlock's absence. But he did seem pleased to see him, as was Sherlock. Here was someone who loved him unconditionally. Sherlock moved to sit down in one of the sofa's, curling up the cat he held in his arms. This was nice. He could get used to relaxing in front of the tv on a sofa, with his pet. It was what ordinary people did, but he could use about of ordinary right now. He needed to relax. What he really needed was a holiday. Sherlock doubted Mycroft would even allow him to leave the country any time soon.

"So..um I'll just get going now, shall I?"  _Yes._

"Is it over? Is it all over now?"  _What? Oh._

"Yes. Moran is dead."

"That's great! Well.. it's not 'great' great, I mean a man is dead but...at least he can't hurt anyone anymore. I'm glad it's over."  _I as well. But what am I supposed to do now?_

"Goodbye Molly."

"Oh yes, I have to go, Renie is taking me to a show tonight."  _She's babbling again._

"Have fun then."

"I'm sure we will! See you later Sherlock!"

_Did she just skip out of here? ...Yes she did._

The flat was quiet now, only the sound of Milton purring and a tap dripping could be heard. The remote for the tv was behind his head, so Sherlock picked it up and switched it on. It was an animated movie. Wasn't this one of those Dibsney ones? Dinsney? Disney! He should know that...he was sure he'd seen one or two of them as a child. This one had some ginger scottish girl. It would do. Because now that everything was over, what was he supposed to do? His life in the past weeks and months and a year, had been about one thing, protecting his friends. Make that two things, stopping Moriarty and Moran. Now he'd done that, he had no purpose.

Sherlock sighed and pulled a cushion under his head and continued to watch the movie.

It was better than nothing and nothing was all he had left.

* * *

"You really should visit him."

"No, we talked about this. I need some space. I need to breathe. Besides Mycroft texted and said he checked out earlier today anyway, so I can't."  _There, see a perfect excuse._

"John."

"Look I don't even know where he's staying, alright? And he might need space too. He did just get shot and help kill a man. Not everyone can get over seeing someones brain splatter before them as easily as a soldier, ok?" Oh John, is that what you've been dreaming about?

"John, he would cope better with a friend."

"No, I...I can't Mary. I just can't. Don't you see?! These past weeks have been one thing and then the other. First we get separated, then reunited and you were hurt. Then I find out he's alive, then Moran comes after me and Sherlock. I need a break."

"I thought you liked all that danger."

"I do! But, I have you and he just came back and I do need a breather. Constant danger is different to occasional danger."

Mary wrapped her arms around him.  _You are seriously considering this, aren't you? You don't know if you should see Sherlock again. Because if you lost him again you heart wouldn't be able to take it._ That short period between Sherlock fainting in his arms and waking up in hospital had been painful. John had almost been beside himself when he got home. All those things he wanted to say and all those things he regretted saying had hung in the air. But then the detective had awoken and John had not visited him since. Mary knew he wanted to see him and wanted to speak to him. But something held him back. If he let Sherlock into his life again it would be a very difficult process.

"Think on it while you take a break, John. Don't do something you will regret."

"I will, I will."

Still she understood John feeling like he needed some time to himself. Perhaps a vacation.

That's what everyone needed.

* * *

Three days later and the flat was a mess. Molly had moved everything. So whenever he looked for something, it was impossible to find. She'd changed the sheets on his bed to some ugly scratchy fabric that made him sneeze. He'd thrown everything on the floor, to Milton's delight. And replaced the sheets and blanket to nice, soft ones from the linen closet.

He didn't even know he had a linen closet.

It was a haphazard attempt in the end. But it would suffice. He curled up in the mess of blankets on his bed. That was warm and comfortable. Much better. He had spent most of the past few days in bed or on the sofa. It was important that they were comfortable. His shoulder still caused him pain. The only time he really moved to get up was to make tea or toast. Or to retrieve his phone after throwing it across the room in a fit of anger. Mycroft could send as many messages as he liked, Sherlock did not have to answer them. Wasn't he supposed to take it easy? Rest? Suddenly he does the right think and people think somethings wrong.

He'd already watched three more disney movies, almost a whole season of Doctor Who and yelled at three reality tv shows. Sherlock was considering just staying in bed and reading instead. Resting may be boring, but the public still knew he was dead, his shoulder hurt too much for him to play the violin and there was nothing else that would take his mind off things.

* * *

_I think this silence is starting to drive me mad._

* * *

Five days later, outside 221b, Mycroft wondered if this was the right choice. Someone should tell her, but that someone should be Sherlock Holmes. He knocked on the door anyway.

"Mycroft! I wasn't expecting you. Come in, come in. What a wonderful surprise."

"How are you Mrs Hudson?"

"I'm fine, baking today. You can be my test subject, sit down."

"Mrs Hudson do you mind if I make us some tea?"

Small talk first, then he'll decide. Perhaps a short drive would help also.

Should he warn him?

No a surprise would do him good.


	53. Mrs Hudson Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part one of the reunion. Part 2 will be...well the next chapter!
> 
> I think Sherlock's been emotionally compromised.
> 
> Not too many chapters left I think.
> 
> I had a big long thing to write here but I forgot it so...um..
> 
> ENJOY

_It was too early. Far too early. It should be against the law to have to be up this early._ He checked the clock, it wasn't early. It was the middle of the day. Still...he'd prefer to stay in bed. But Sherlock would rather not have Mycroft poking him in his sleep, until he woke up. Apparently Big Brother was coming over for a visit. Wonderful. Yawning, Sherlock placed his phone back on the bedside table and pulled himself out of bed. The sun coming from the window was too bright. It burned. He reached for his slippers only to pull up a kitten along with them. Milton sometimes fancied himself a dog rather than a cat. Prying the kitten's teeth from the slipper, Sherlock put them on and reached for his red dressing gown. He should probably make himself tea or coffee. Something to wake himself up.

He stumbled into the kitchen, wiping his eyes and trying not to trip over the creature weaving in and out of his legs and mewing at the top of his little voice. He flipped the switch on the kettle and searched the fridge for some milk. There was plenty. He stood there holding the milk for longer than necessary, before shaking away the sad thoughts and taking the carton back to the bench. Milton had seen the milk, but he was not getting any.  _Sorry little one._ Dropping a little spoonful of coffee into a mug, the one emblazoned with a smily face and the words Brighten Your Day, Sherlock poured the now boiled water onto his coffee, followed by the milk. Two spoonfuls of sugar came next.

"Merow!"  _Oh right. Sorry._  Milton looked very put out.

Sherlock retrieved his food and drink bowls and filled one with water and the other with a small amount of cat food. The kitten looked wistfully at the milk for half a second before leaping at the bowls, tipping one over in his excitement.  _At least one of us is happy._ He settled on the sofa with his coffee and leaned back into one of the cushions. He could make breakfast. But that would mean getting up again. And he was too lazy to do that. Sherlock would just sit here and wait for Mycroft. Who was taking his sweet time.

_I hope he's lost._

* * *

"Where are we going again?"  _It's a surprise._

"A little trip. There's someone I want you to meet."

"Have you finally found a lady friend, Mycroft Holmes? Or a gentleman friend?"

"Haha, no Mrs Hudson." _I am doomed to be a bachelor forever._

"Oh, well then I shall just have to be surprised won't I?" _You have no idea._

* * *

There was a knock at the door. Milton leaped onto the arm of the sofa and cried.  _I agree, little one._  He could just yell 'Come In!' but that would require effort. Mycroft had a key. He could let his own damn self in. Sherlock pulled the little coffee table towards him using his foot and put the empty mug on top of it and reached for the remote. He heard the door unlock and open but didn't bother to turn around. It wasn't worth it. He hardly needed another lecture or disapproving look.

"Hello?..I brought someone to meet you." Brought someone? Why would he bring someone over?

Sherlock stood, prepared to either ignore the visitor and Mycroft or give them a half hearted greeting until he saw who it was.

And she saw him.

Oh.

Oh shit.

It was Mrs Hudson.

* * *

No. He was dead. He was supposed to be dead. She had gone to his funeral, mourned him like a son, left flowers on his grave. She'd grieved for a long time. She had watched over his best friend and worried about him when he finally left 221b. But here he was in the flesh. Living, breathing flesh. He was much paler than usual, his hair was longer and messier, and there was a faint impression of stubble on his chin. His pyjamas hung loosely off a body that was eating even less than when he'd lived in 221b. And there was a kitten on the arm of the sofa, sniffing Mycroft's pockets.

She took a step forward and he took a step back, tripping over a small hexagonal coffee table. He landed on the floor and scrambled to get up. Martha used this to her advantage and was in front of him before he'd had a chance to escape again. She put a hand on either side of his face for a moment, studying it. Before slapping him hard on the cheek, enough for him to cry out. Sherlock winced, resting his own hand on the inflicted area and flinched when Mrs Hudson moved to hold his face again, but this time her face was soft, her eyes were watering and she was trying and failing to smile without crying.

And then she hugged him.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and held on tight, resting his head against her shoulder. It felt good to be hugged. He should do it more often.

"Oh you stupid boy. You stupid, stupid boy! How could you do this to me? To John?" He didn't answer. He just held on.

Mycroft turned and left the flat. He'd leave them alone for now.

Coward. How dare he spring this on the both of them, thought Sherlock.

* * *

She was going to have a nice chat with Mycroft after all this. What a horrible thing to do to a person. Surely there would have been a nicer way of reuniting the two of them. Sherlock still hadn't answered her. Martha had expected a witty remark but had received only silence. Very UnSherlock of him. Perhaps he was speechless. Which would also be unusual. Her cardigan was becoming suspiciously wet... No doubt Sherlock's chest was the same. Was he crying? Sherlock Holmes never cried. She pulled back and he quickly turned around, wiping at his eyes..and stretching his neck, murmuring. She wiped her own eyes and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock dear..."

"I'm fine."

"Do you expect me to believe that? I'm not stupid you know." The dear boy.

"I didn't say that. I am fine though. Um... it's good to see you again."

"Then turn around." He did, only to sit back down on the sofa with his head in his hands.  _You don't fool me._

Wasn't she the one supposed to be in shock here? She was but Sherlock didn't seem to be himself at all. He seemed so much younger than she remembered. A tiny black body leaped into his lap and Sherlock lifted him to his chest.

"Always thought you were a cat person. You always acted like one yourself. He's a darling. Does he have a name?"

"Milton."

"What an adorable name."

"Yes..."

What should she do? She was still in shock that Sherlock was alive. And quite mad actually. But it didn't seem right to yell at him. Sherlock's stomach took that moment to rumbled and she guessed correctly that he hadn't eaten yet. Typical of the boy. She patted his shoulder and headed into his kitchen. The flat was just as messy had 221b had been though this was all his mess, rather than a mix of his and John's. Though the doctor had been the neater of the two. There was nothing homey about the place though. It was very small, cold and dull.

"What...what are you doing?"

"Making you and I lunch. As you obviously haven't had anything yet."

"I'm not hungry."

"Your stomach disagrees. You stay right there. I'll rustle something up. I hope there isn't any fingers or toes in here, Sherlock."  _Though that would be more like you._

"No, Mrs Hudson. Just food."

"How unusual."

She pulled out a loaf of bread, some butter, cheese and a packet of sliced ham. All within their use by date. Another odd thing to find in the fridge of Consulting Detective. Martha decided that she would make herself and Sherlock a couple of nice, hearty sandwiches and the two of them could have a good long chat. Something was wrong with Sherlock Holmes and she was determined to find out.


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long. Not perfect. Almost at the end I think. I keep saying that but I feel like we are! Lestrade next and probably John. Then END!...Maybe.
> 
> Enjoy

Satisfied with her sandwiches and fresh cups of tea, she left the little kitchen and headed into the living room. Sherlock had since righted the little table for her to place the plate and cups. She pushed a blue cup into his hands and one half of a sandwich. She watched him stare at them for two minutes, as if deducing the contents. Then he brought the bread to his lips and took a bite. Good, he was eating. That was one problem sorted. Now for the other.

"Now dear. Why don't you tell me what's bothering you."

"Nothing...I'm fine." Absolutely fine. I'm perfect.

"I didn't come down in the last shower of rain, Sherlock. You were crying. That isn't like you."  _Let me help you, dear. You aren't yourself._

Sherlock sighed and put his empty cup back down the the table. He couldn't really tell her. He didn't know what it would do to her. And he didn't want her pity. But it didn't look like she was going to take no for an answer. He was going to have to come up with another equally probable answer, than just _I'm a broken shell of a man._

"I feel...bad. For lying to you and the others. For letting you all believe I was dead. I'm..sorry, Mrs Hudson."Cue quivering lip and smallest tear in his eye. Perfectly logical response.

"Oh, Sherlock." The mess you've made. She wrapped her arm around him and he leaned in, his head against her shoulder.

"I assume John knows. How did he take it?"

"...Not well." Oh, darling.  _John must have been very hurt when you told him. I would hope he would be delighted. Perhaps he just needs time._

"Give him time, Sherlock. He'll come around." _How did she know he still hasn't forgiven me?_

"I don't think it would make much difference." Sherlock mumbled under his breath, pulling away from his former land lady.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." _It was not nothing, Sherlock. I wish you would tell me what's wrong. I will just have to wait._

Milton chose that moment to poke Sherlock with his paw and chirp. The detective ripped off a piece of meat and placed it in the opened mouth. _That's it. No more._

* * *

Mrs Hudson left the sofa, which their now empty cups and plates, taking them to the kitchen. Little paws followed her, Milton mewing at her feet. She was certain he would have been fed earlier. Unless Sherlock had forgotten to feed him. But in her experience, cats always tried to find ways to get more food. By any means necessary. Milton was no exception. Placing the dishes in the sink, she reached down and picked the darling creature up.

"I am sure you have already been fed, so that won't work." Milton whined and squirmed.

She deposited him into Sherlock's arms, who tried to restrain him from leaping towards the kitchen again. He didn't need more food. Just attention. As if reading his owner's thoughts, Milton turned and crawled down Sherlock's shirt, his head poking out the top. Mrs Hudson couldn't help but laugh. They were quite a pair. Did he buy him? Or had he been a gift? She couldn't imagine Sherlock ever buying or having a pet, but here he was.

"Where did you get him, dear?"

"He was a gift. They said no one else wanted him." They? You don't want to tell me who gave you the kitten?

"Why ever not? He's an adorable little thing." She tickled him behind the ears. Milton purred with pleasure. He didn't usually take to people so easily. But it seemed he liked or approved of Mrs Hudson.

"He has scars. Damaged goods. But he doesn't let that stop him."  _Perhaps I should take his advice. I'm damaged goods too._

"Poor thing. You are quite the charmer aren't you?" It became awkward, Mrs Hudson having to coo in the direction of his chest, so Sherlock removed the kitten and set him on his lap. Milton curled up and yawned.

"How long are you staying?" She looked at her watch, she could leave at any time, she didn't like the idea of leaving Sherlock on his own. But he must have been asking for a reason. And she doubted she would get much more out of him today.

"I can go if you like, dear. But I have to ask. Will you come back to 221b?" Don't go..

"No one is living there?" Surely someone would have rented it out by now. Unless...

"No dear. You are welcome to it. It's too quiet now, I've missed hearing you and John upstairs."  _I'd like to...but John has his own home now._

"I doubt I could afford the rent, but thank you for offering."  _I could visit though.._

"I'd do a special price, just for you. I know John has a home with Mary now but you could turn his room into a lab or a guest room for visitors. Or both! Please consider it. I don't like you being here all alone." _I'd be alone there too, Mrs Hudson._

"I'll think about it."

"Good."

This place was too depressing and small, for Mrs Hudson's taste. There was no sign of Sherlock's usual creative flair, it was messy of course, but it didn't feel like a home. Just a house, a flat. And it was too dark and quiet. Perhaps she could convince Mycroft Holmes to help her get Sherlock back into 221b. The boy would be happier, feel more at home and could spread out. And she would be just downstairs if he needed her. But she really did need the rent.

"I will take my leave then." She stood, Sherlock doing the same, placing a sleeping Milton to the side.

"Oh, ok. Fine. Thank you for...um..coming." Oh darling. What are we going to do with you?

She pulled him into her arms again and held him close. He wrapped his around hers, his head against her shoulder. Neither wanting to let go. Mrs Hudson finally had her surrogate son back, but he was troubled and she wondered if he would ever be his old self again. And he had someone who didn't hate him for what he'd done and wanted him to come back home. If only he had the money. There was Mycroft...but he was sure his brother would prefer to have Sherlock under his watchful eyes, interfering git. He meant well but it was no longer necessary now that Moran was dead.

Mrs Hudson kissed him on his temple and waved goodbye.

Damn.

No what was he supposed to do for the rest of the day after all that?

Moping sounded promising.

He went back to the sofa, flicked the telly onto a crap reality show and rested his long legs on the coffee table.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

_Hey, can I ask you a question? -GL_

_Of course. I would rather you call. -MH_

_No, this is easier. Look, why is Sherlock staying? Wanted to visit and see how he is. -GL_

_In a small flat, under my surveillance. I can text you the address if you like. -MH_

_Not at 221b? Alright. Brilliant. Text me. -GL_

_BTW, Punching you in the nose next time we meet. -GL_

_Understood, texting you the address presently -MH_

_Thanks -GL_

* * *

Fucking git.


	55. The Visit

He didn't hear from anyone else for two days. Two uneventful days. Two mind numbingly boring days. He spent some of the time watching crap telly. Also making card houses, then card castles, then he got bored. It didn't help that the towers kept collapsing. He read a few books. Finished them in record time. Not very interesting. A lot of people died. Horribly depressing. Fortunately Mycroft had arranged for a pile of scientific magazines to be delivered and they filled up the rest of his time. He wished he had his violin. Mycroft had taken back the one he had loaned to him. No doubt it belonged to some important person who needed it back. Still it would have been a welcome distraction.

Didn't John have his violin now?

He wasn't getting it back, was he?

Wonderful.

* * *

This better be the right place or Mycroft Bloody Holmes was about to get an earful for sending him on a wild goose chase. Alright, was he ready? Hamper? Check! Cheesy Get Well Card? Check! DVD's for Potential Doctor Who Marathon? Check! Quick get away plan? Check! Was this really his place? It looked so dismal and small. Not unlike the flat in Montague Street. However any flat would be an improvement on that one. Still, it did look rather depressing. Lestrade searched his pocket for the key Mycroft had given him. He had said he would be lucky if Sherlock answered the door and this would be easier. Made perfect sense to Greg, so without another thought, he let himself in.

The front room, the living room presumably, was very cold. Newspapers littered the floor, as did a few empty plates and a cup of cold tea. Nothing unusual in this though. Not compared to Sherlock's previous living arrangements. There seemed to be no lights on. It was in the middle of the afternoon, surely he wasn't still in bed. Should he call out? Before he had even put this thought into action, he heard a squeak coming from the kitchen. Placing the hamper and dvds on a bench, he turned the corner to find...a kitten fighting a mouse. And the kitten was winning. No, with one swift paw swipe, he had won. Someone should clean that dead body up. Before another someone decided to use it in an experiment. Lestrade crouched down to pick up the kitten, but stood suddenly, when he heard footsteps from behind him. He turned quickly, prepared to explain his presence in the kitchen to...a naked Sherlock.

A wet, naked Sherlock with tousled hair.

Oh fuck.

He covered his eyes and turned away. This spur of the moment visit was already going wonderfully wasn't it?

* * *

Not another visitor. It wasn't that he wasn't pleased to have one. But a person should be allowed to wander his own house naked without a worry and without running into an intruder. In this case one that clearly had his own key. Sherlock sighed and turned around, back into the bathroom. Clothes, clothes. What had he done with them? He'd slept naked last night. Which wasn't uncommon. So they were probably still in his room. So... ah! A dressing gown and a towel. That would do for the moment. He wrapped the towel around his waist and pulled the dressing gown on. He stepped out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a hand towel and leaving a trail of water.

"Can I turn around now?"

"What? Yes of course. Is that blood." Sherlock gestured to the kitchen floor, suddenly very curious.

"Your cat had a fight with a rat."

"A rat? Milton?"

"Saw it with my own eyes. Quite the little warrior." Sherlock knelt down and picked up Milton, noting the blood on his little nose. He set him on the countertop and began to wipe off the blood. Lestrade had disposed of the rat.

"Yes...Why are you here?"

"To visit you of course. Look, can you put some clothes on?"

"Why?"

"Because you're half naked!"

"No, why are you visiting? Did Mycroft put you up to this?"

"No. I don't just do what your brother tells me, remember? I was concerned."

"I am fine." _Right. I saw those scars mate._

Sherlock moved into the living room, curling his long body into one of the dusty armchairs. He lifted the cup of tea to his lips and then spat out the contents. Idiot. Lestrade flipped the switch on the kettle and prepared them both some tea. While he waited for the water to boil, he brought the hamper and card over to Sherlock. Who looked at it in confusion and suspicion. A card. How quaint.

"What's this?"

"It's a gift. Take it you git before I change my mind."

Sherlock opened the card first. He knew it was good manners to do so. Not that he believed in good manners, most of the time. The card was disgustingly sappy. A sick looking cat with a thermometer in its mouth and an icepack on it's head. Get Well Soon indeed. The contents were even worse. The hamper was more promising. But he couldn't really discern it's contents, too much plastic wrapping and big red bows. He dragged himself to the floor and proceeded to open it. Milton tried to help. Lestrade had decided to sit opposite him, on the sofa. Probably to see his reaction.

It was filled with food, no doubt because he was on the skinny side, the very skinny side. But it was good food. Food he would actually eat. There was also a microscope, a box of shiny new test tubes, a teddy bear with a blue ribbon, a blue fleece blanket, some tea and a pair of new, black leather gloves. He'd gone to a lot of trouble to make a unique hamper for the young detective. He didn't have to do it, he could have just brought a generic one. But he would known Sherlock would only throw this out. Sherlock himself bit his lip, it was a gesture he hadn't been expecting. He removed each item and set it on the floor. Milton took this to mean the basket was now his and settled himself inside.

"Uh..thank you."

"A thank you from Sherlock Holmes? Never thought I'd see the day."  _Must you make fun?_

Sherlock wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and dangled a ribbon above Milton. It was such an odd picture. Lestrade never thought he'd see Sherlock do something so ordinary and so unlike himself. But then perhaps he didn't know the man as much as he thought. He adored that cat and he never thought that the words Pet Kitten and Sherlock Holmes would ever go together. Sherlock was a cat himself in many ways. Sometimes a curious kitten, other times a dark panther in search of prey. Lestrade smiled fondly to himself.

But those scars worried him. He'd only seen them for a split second but that was all he needed. Some of those would be the result of an accident, but the others, from torture, plain and simple. It made his blood boil to think Sherlock had been tortured and alone with no one to help him. He'd been saved obviously, probably by Mycroft. It was becoming clear that his time away had not been all fun and games. What effect had it had on the detective? He seemed himself, but softer, quieter. The sarcasm was there, in his eyes, but the snarkyness was gone. He didn't seem to want to argue the point. Or have the last word.

"Sherlock, listen. Can we talk?"

Sherlock froze. He knew exactly what this was about. Either John had told him everything, or he'd deduced it himself. Or...of course! He could almost slap himself, he'd seen the scars before he'd covered his eyes. He would have questions, it was only natural. But Sherlock didn't have to tell him. It wasn't his business and he didn't want any pity. The look in Lestrade's eyes only made him feel worse. He was gesturing to the sofa. Fine. But he wasn't going to tell him to gory details. Yes he was tortured, yes it effected him but he was fine now, not to worry.

But he knew as soon as he opened his mouth to reply that it wasn't going to be that easy.

This was the man who had stayed with him through withdrawal, who had taken a brilliant young man on drugs into his home. And nursed him back to health. He'd seen him sick, he'd seen him vulnerable, crying, delirious. This was the man who had seen him at his worst and never held it against him, never though of him any differently. Sherlock had "died" for this man. If there was anyone he could tell and not worry about the possibility of being pity or hurting the person, it was Greg Lestrade.

"Of course. What would you like to know?"


	56. There's No Shame In Crying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit shorter, sorry! Not sure about this one.

What would he like to know? What happened? How did you get those scars? What changed you? Where have you been all this time? But he couldn't pepper him with questions. No, just the one for now. Sherlock might not even open up. Though for once it seemed like he was open to talking. Perhaps he wanted to get things off his chest. It would be like him to keep everything to himself. The young man wasn't even looking at him, rather the kitten in the basket who was now sleeping on the toy bear. Sweet thing. Ok.  _Take a deep breath and just ask him._

"What happened while you were away?" Simple question, not directly asking about the wounds. Easy.

It took awhile for him to answer. "I disabled Moriarty's network. But it was all over the world. I had help, but I preferred working alone."  _Of course you did._

"Is that all?"

It occurred to Sherlock how easily he could say yes, but he knew that Lestrade would never believe him. It was so hard to get started though. To put what happened into words. He couldn't just say he was tortured could he? Greg wouldn't accept just that. He would probably want details. Tangible information. How much information was enough?

"Sherlock?"

"I...I was tortured..by Moriarty and his people."

That was easier than he thought. He even felt a little lighter. But the memories were now fresh in his mind. Oh God, he hoped he wouldn't have one of those dreadful flashbacks, they were always so embarrassing. He felt a hand on his back and felt ashamed. Great, now Greg felt sorry for him. How wonderful. Scowl back at him that will work. It didn't work.

"That's terrible mate. I assume that's where you got...that is to say those scars, Sherlock.."  _Oh spit it out._  Greg scolded himself.

"Yes he was responsible for those."  _Shit, son._

"It's alright mate. You don't have to tell me anymore." _But I want to, now that I've started I don't think I can stop._

"They beat me. Fists, weapons, whatever they could get their hands on. And they used whips as well. They used to wake me up at four in the morning and strip me, and would hold my head under freezing ice water under I was gasping for breath when they stopped." He had to keep going, get it all out in the open. He would not look at Lestrade until he finished. Leaning forward with his arms wrapped around his body, he continued.

"Sometimes, they would drug me. I would hallucinate. I saw...terrible things. Moriarty rarely did any of the dirty work. But...he burnt me. Branded me." Another breath, almost a gasp this time. He could feel the tears threatening to fall.  _No, get a hold of yourself, you're almost finished._

"He owned me, Greg. Gave me a collar. Never referred to by name, except by him. He began to drug me again, it got to the point that I didn't know my own name. That I no longer accepted reality. I was virtually catatonic. That was how he found me, Mycroft. He hasn't looked at me the same since. No one does. Just with pity. They are so sorry for what happened. But sorry does nothing! Sorry doesn't change what happened to me!"

He suddenly found himself standing, his voice getting louder.

"Moriarty destroyed me and all they can say is sorry! And John, John doesn't even care. John rejected my return, he no longer wants to be my friend. Never even let me explain. I don't blame him. I wouldn't want to be my friend. I thought he would understand, he was a soldier. He knows trauma." He knew Lestrade was now standing and trying to calm him down. But he was so wound up.

"Sherlock, Sherlock mate."

"And even though it happened months ago, I still dream about it! About the torture, the pain. I wanted to die, Greg. I wanted to...it hurt so much and I just gave up. Me, I gave up."

His voice faded, the energy leaving him. Why had he revealed everything? It only brought fresh waves of pain, and the memories of torture became that much brighter, that much real in the his mind. Oh fuck, oh fuck. Greg had forced him back onto the sofa and was wrapping his arms around the detective. No, please don't think any different of me, Greg. I'm still Sherlock. Please. Oh fuck. This was a very bad idea. He was crying and he could hear the Inspector.  _Let it out Sherlock. It's alright. There's no shame in crying. Just let it all out mate._

And so he did.

* * *

Greg fumed, wanted to strangle and torture everyone involved in breaking Sherlock Holmes. The kid was now crying in his arms and he hadn't the faintest idea what to do about it. Other then the generic, it will be alright. But he felt the detective needed this. He needed to cry. Knowing him he probably hadn't. Not like this. His relationship with Mycroft used to be rocky, he might feel comfortable now crying in front of him. Seeing how different he was now. And John. Fucking hell, John. The bloke saves your life, reveals he's alive and you hurt him? Reject him? Did John even know what Sherlock had been through? John was Sherlock's best friend. His surrogate brother. And after everything that happened, Greg knew, this would have torn at Sherlock's heart.

"It's ok mate."

He could make out murmurs of 'it hurts'. Greg began to rub circles into Sherlock's back, whose face was buried in his chest, his fists clasped tightly onto his coat. He was practically cradling the young man at one point. It was eerily familiar. But this was different than a withdrawal. This was real pain and out of everyone in Sherlock's life, he'd chosen to reveal it to Lestrade. Who was sort of responsible for putting Sherlock's 'death' in motion in the first place.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock's voice croaked, his face still buried into Lestrade's coat.

"Don't be. You have nothing to be sorry about. We can stay like this as long as you like, mate."

Maybe he would. Just for a little while. Until he had proper control of himself. Greg would promise, he had to promise he wouldn't tell anyone about Sherlock's outburst. And he had to promise he wouldn't treat him any differently. No walking on eggshells. He was, and would always be, Sherlock Holmes.

His recovery was just taking awhile.


	57. Sleep Well, Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE TEA! So I'm always including it in a fic...I love the fandom teas the most. But they don't ship here! Well they do but it's like $50 for a small bag. :( I can't afford that much for postage! But I have a nice smoky tea to drink in the meantime. (maybe for christmas lol). Oh! Someone sent a review and was talking about Rupert's nursery. Which is funny because I had been just thinking about that before I got it! So I included it here.
> 
> Sorry, bit of a filler here. Hope it's ok!
> 
> Enjoy!

They ended up staying like that for another fifteen minutes. Lestrade was more than happy to comfort the detective, though it wasn't something he'd done in a very long time. Sherlock never needed to be comforted. Unless it has a hand on the shoulder if John had been injured. But those days seemed so long ago. And that was Old!Sherlock. New!Sherlock definitely needed him. When the detective finally pulled away, he looked tired, his eyes red. Greg searched his pockets for a handkerchief, finding a large green one. He placed it in Sherlock's hand, who looked embarrassed as he wiped his eyes.

"Why don't I make us both a nice cup of tea?" He'd planned to earlier, but become distracted.

He rose from the sofa and headed into the kitchen, giving Sherlock some privacy. He hummed to himself as he prepared two cups. One blue with white spots, the other red with black spots. They preferred different tastes in tea and coffee. Wouldn't want them to get mixed up. With the kettle boiled and whistling, he poured the steaming water into both cups and breathed in the delicious fumes. Ah, tea. What would life be without it? He grabbed both handles and took teacups back into the living room. Sherlock looked more like himself, but still tired. Probably exhausted himself. He should rest. Have a nap perhaps.

"Here, mate. One of the new blends. Very smoky." It certainly was. It filled his sinuses with wonderful fumes. It tasted just as delicious.

"Thank you..."

"No problem, mate. Now I think, you should drink up and then have a rest. You look like shit. Did you get any sleep last night?"

"A little..." He'd had a few nightmares and then decided just to get up and watch one of the many videos Mycroft had left in the bookcase.

"There's your problem. You have a nap, I'll go and get some groceries, your fridge is about empty."

"But the hamper..."

"That's not healthy food mate."

"No. I'm fine. Besides don't you need to go back to your...infant?" Your spawn?

Greg chuckled. "Her sister's and friends are in town, I was happy to have an excuse to leave. Nah, besides she knows you need taking care of."

"I am fine."

"Then why are you asleep on your feet?" He was. As he stood swaying, indignant, teacup in one hand.

"I am not." Another laugh as Lestrade helped Sherlock back onto the sofa.

"You stay here, I'll get you a pillow and perhaps..clothes."

Bedroom must be around here somewhere.

* * *

It was small compared to the ones in 221b. Not that he was very familiar with them. But there was that time Sherlock had been drugged by a dominatrix. And during the first drug's bust. This one held a double bed, covered in various blankets. The bed took up most of the room. Like a nest or a den. He searched through a chest of drawers and found a pair of red checked pyjama bottoms and a pale blue shirt. That would do. He wasn't going to get him pants as well. Removing the pillow from his bed as well, he left the room. Sherlock was bent over, his head resting on his palms. Oh mate. What am I going to do with you? Throwing the pillow on the sofa next to the detective, he retrieved the blue blanket from the floor.

"Alright, here is your pyjamas. No need to thank me." Sherlock took them without a word. And proceeded to get changed right then and there. Doesn't he have any sense of privacy? Wait, no this was Sherlock he was talking about. Greg covered his eyes again and quickly turned.

"You know, you could get changed in private like everyone else."

"Why?"

"Because...you know, never mind."

"I'm done." So am I.

"Good. Now lie down and rest. I'll be back soon."

Sherlock did as he was told, which was another new, worrying trait. "Wait...talk to me."

"About what? Not telling you a bloody bed time story." He was surprised not to receive a sarcastic remark. Only a sigh.

"Anything. It will help me sleep." Sherlock was now lying on the sofa, his long legs curled up against his chest. What should he tell him? Anything? Well, in that case.

He fished through his pockets again for his wallet, removing a folded photo and handing it to the detective. "This is Rupert's new nursery. Didn't want the plain, boring blue everyone always does for a boy. Wanted something special. So we consulted a friend and.."

Greg rambled on, Sherlock was barely listening. It was somewhat interesting. Instead of a blue room, they'd covered the walls in forest themed wallpaper. The ceiling as the sky with a large round ceiling light. The floor was a green shaggy carpet, to look like grass. And all the furniture was dark brown and made of wood. Nothing plastic. The cot was round and surprisingly, had been a present from Mycroft. The bars of the cot were twisting vines. Complete with a mobile of colourful butterflies. Ok, maybe he had been paying attention. His own nursery had been Mycroft's once upon a time. Dark blue with a ceiling filled with stars. Some of the furniture had been very old.

Tired...

He closed his eyes, hearing Lestrade leave. He felt terrible for burdening him with everything. And it was embarrassing for him to be taken care of like a child. He would rest for a short while. And it was fortunate that Greg had left, wouldn't want him around for any nightmares. Especially considering what he had done today. He was certain to have at least one. Better get it over with then.

* * *

When Greg returned an hour later, he was whistling. Two grocery bags on each hand, meant a knock on the door. Until he remembered Sherlock was possibly still sleeping. Hopefully. But he soon managed to let himself in without dropping anything. Thank goodness he'd remembered to bring the key. And just in time it seemed.

Shit.

Sherlock was screaming.


	58. SleepOver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. I'm thinking trilogy right now. I'll let you know soon.
> 
> ENJOY!

He dropped the shopping on the floor and raced towards the living room, to find Sherlock writhing on the couch.  _Shit, sorry kid._  Greg grasped him by the shoulders, trying to shake him awake. Sherlock's face twisted as if in pain, his arm lifting, aiming a swing at Greg's head. But he was still asleep.  _Bloody good aim for a sleeping man. Come on! Wake up!_ The young man get crying out and trying to get away from Lestrade, muttering things that made little sense.  _This is my fault. You didn't have to tell me, mate. Not if you knew this would be the result._

"Sherlock, come on! Wake up!"

"It's me, Greg...It's Lestrade!"  _I don't want to have to slap you._

Sherlock's eyes burst open, full of fear. It took two minutes for him to realise his surroundings. It took another until he recognised Greg. He croaked out Lestrade's name, his voice questioning.  _Are you real? Am I still dreaming?_ Lestrade wrapped his arms around the detective and whispered soothing words into his ears, while the young man cried.  _It's alright. I'm alright. Just a dream. Fuck, why did I tell him? What a terrible idea that was. Never again._

"Sssh. It's ok, mate. It's ok. You're home, you're safe. It wasn't real."

"B-but it was." He whispered. It had really happened.

"Hey, no use thinking about that. What good does it do you? None." He rested on hand on the back of the detective's head.

"But-"

"No." Greg pulled away, wiping Sherlock's face with his hanky. "I won't hear anymore. Wipe your face. I'm going to get the shopping and put it away. Will you be ok?"

The detective nodded, taking the offered handkerchief. He felt embarrassed with himself. But it was also nice to be fussed over. Whilst Lestrade put the groceries away, Sherlock wiped his eyes and blew his nose. Loud enough to scare poor Milton, who toppled out of his basket. He looked at Sherlock, upside down and mewed. Sherlock felt like chuckling, but it wouldn't come. Like it was stuck in his throat. He settled for giving the kitten a small smile. Milton seemed to forgive him; finding his tail far more interesting than the trumpet in Sherlock's nose.

"You are very easily amused little one."

* * *

Greg gave Sherlock his privacy and headed back to pick up his fallen groceries. Luckily nothing had broken or spilled. He brought them into the small kitchen and began to fill the fridge and pantry back up. That ought to do for a few weeks. He'd send the bill to Mycroft. What kind of brother was he? To let his little brother go starving? Sure, Sherlock on a good day didn't eat very much. But he needed to more than ever. He was very thin. And he needed to get out into the sun more. Maybe he would look less like a brooding vampire.

As he watched the young man talk to the kitten, he felt something twist in his chest. This wasn't the Sherlock he knew. This was some strange, lonely man wearing his skin. And it hurt, because he knew this was the same man he'd watched grow from being shy and angry at the world. Snapping at everyone because he was so used to them snapping first. Then kick his habit, start solving crimes and watching the happiness on his face when they caught a killer. And then there was John. Sherlock had never been happier than when he was friends with the good doctor. He had begun to blossom into a good man, a happy man. Then all that shit had to happen and this was what he was left with.

Greg wiped the stray tear from his cheek and coughed.  _Pull yourself together, man. You won't help him if you fall to pieces._ He walked over to Sherlock and rested the blue blanket around his shoulders, sitting beside him. "Hey, how about, I stay here tonight, hm? I can kip on this couch. I brought over some DVD's, we can watch those, have ourselves a marathon. And, we'll have take out. Chinese maybe. A new place opened up west of here. Has the most delicious curry you've ever tasted-"

"Lestrade..."

"Can I help you, sweetheart?" Sherlock had forgotten how some of Lestrade's affectionate nicknames bordered on the extremely annoying.

"You do not have to stay here. I am fine now."

Greg laughed. "You are kidding, aren't you? I'm staying whether you like it or not. We have a lot of catching up to do."

"You didn't bring any pyjamas." Sherlock commented, hoping that would poke a flaw into Greg's plan. Not that company wouldn't be welcome. He just didn't want Lestrade to feel obligated to stay the night.

"Don't need any. I'll sleep in my pants and singlet. Now. Why don't you have something to eat and I'll fix up the couch."

"I'm not hungry."

"I didn't ask you if you were. Off you pop."

Almost grumbling under his breath, Sherlock stood and made his way into the kitchen. The fridge was full for once. As was the pantry. What could he eat that would satisfy Greg's need to Mother Hen him? There was a new box of crackers, that might work. And there was spicy capsicum dip in the fridge. Sherlock found a very small bowl and spooned out some of the dip. He then grabbed a handful of crackers and poured himself a glass of the bottle mango and apple juice. He then headed back into the living room, where Greg had straightened out the couch and folded up the blanket. He must have put the pillow back in Sherlock's bedroom.

"That looks nice!" He doesn't have to sound so cheerful. It's just food.

Sherlock placed the plate of crackers and bowl of dip onto the little coffee table and began to eat. He was pleasantly surprised with the flavour of the dip. And with the taste of the juice. Greg had helped himself to some of the grapes he placed in the fruit bowl. Sherlock hadn't even realised that was what it was for. It wouldn't last. He would end up watching them grow mould as an experiment. But fresh fruit would be interesting, if only for awhile.

"So, Chinese or curry?"

* * *

They ended up choosing curry. Greg phoned the restaurant and arranged for the delivery, while Sherlock searched for the trays. He knew he had at least three. He remembered because he didn't understand why so many were necessary. He'd asked Mycroft, who had said 'well, you might have guests'. Which he'd thought ridiculous.  _Everyone think's I'm dead, who would be visiting?_ Had Mycroft foreseen something like this happening? Possibly. Sherlock found them eventually. One plain and blue with two dividers. The other had pink flowers and kittens. Obviously Molly had left this one. Greg could use it.

A knock on the door made him jump, until he realised it was just the delivery man. He let Greg answer, he didn't need to give some poor kid a shock, not with his face having once been plastered all over the news. He could smell the aroma as soon as it entered the building. Good. For once he actually felt hungry. It had been awhile since he'd joined anyone in a meal. Unless you count late night snacking at Mycroft's. Somehow he didn't think that counted.

"Tea's ready, Sherlock! Oh, smell that!" Greg was grinning as he brought in their dinner, dividing the orders up so that they had an even share. "Let's eat on the couch, I'll put something on."

He rummaged through the dvd's he'd left on the bench. "Classic or Modern? No, classic. I know you've watched a bit of Doctor Who. Here. This one is called Robot. Fourth Doctor's first story!" He placed in the player and turned on the TV.

"Fourth...oh yes. That's right, they change. This is the one with the scarf?"

"Yes. Brilliant bloke. Come on, budge over and start eating."

Greg pressed play and then put the remote aside to eat.

It looked delicious.

* * *

They got through Robot, started and finished The Ark in Space and watched the first episode of The Sontaran Experiment. By then both of them began to feel tired. Greg did the dishes, which consisted of putting things in the bin and rinsing off any plates or utensils. He made sure Sherlock was safe in his bed, and that he knew Greg was only down the hall. He then stripped down to his singlet and pants and curled up on the couch. He'd only been there for a minute when two blankets and a pillow fell on his face. By the time he looked up, he only saw a curly head disappear down the hall.

"Oh Sherlock. What am I going to do with you."

_Good night mate, and please sleep well this time._


	59. Breakfast and Black Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not perfect. But a filler. Enjoy.

He had another nightmare that night. He dreamed of blood and knives and fists. Sherlock dreamed of trying to defend himself and failing. People laughing at him. Friends laughing at him. John most of all. While he dreamed and screamed, Lestrade had tried to wake him again. Earning a black eye for his troubles. He decided against continuing, not want to Sherlock to wake up and find out he'd punched him. Instead he retreated to the kitchen and found an icepack in the freezer. He wrapped it around a striped tea towel and curled up on the couch.

Sherlock had stopped screaming.

Either he had slipped into another dream or was awake or neither of those. God, it hurt to hear those sounds. The Sherlock he'd known was stronger than this. Only ever really letting one person know what he was feeling. Greg really needed to speak to that person. Why wasn't he here doing all this? He sounded like he knew what was going on. But he mustn't. Fine. He'd call him in the morning. Or the afternoon. Definitely at some point very soon. Greg eventually removed the icepack and tried to fall back to sleep.

* * *

He arose early the next morning, unable to get anymore sleep and draped the blanket around him like a cloak.  _Might as well get some breakfast. Should probably have a coffee too. Now what should I make?_ Now that he'd gone shopping, he could make toast or cereal, even pancakes.  _Oh that last one sounded very appealing. Fine, pancakes it was then._  He found a frying pan,the necessary ingredients and began to cook. Soon the delicious smell was wafting through the air. He managed to make enough for both him and Sherlock. He divided them onto two different plates, and after filling a glass jug with the apple and mango juice, he decided to was time to wake up Sherlock Holmes.

 _The lad looks like an angel when he's sleeping._  The curls formed a halo around his head as they rested against the pillow. _I almost didn't want to wake him, but someone has too._  Lestrade gently shook Sherlock's shoulder. The sleeping detective waved a hand around and turned over, his face now hidden from view. So he tried again. Nothing. He could spray him with water. It would be safer than making a loud noise. Greg decided to try one more time. And...success! Sherlock turned back around, his eyes barely open, almost glaring at him. He groaned and tried to hide under the covers.

"Not today sunshine." Greg cheerfully pulled the covers back, Sherlock responded by covering his face with his hands.

"Go 'way."

"Nope. I've made breakfast, and you're going to come out and eat some pancakes with me."

Did he say...pancakes? He had a weakness for pancakes...

"Early."

"Great deduction! Now up you get." Greg waited until Sherlock had started to rise before leaving the room.

Sherlock swung his legs around, resting his hands against his eyes. Too early. Too bright. Too sunny and cheerful. Horrible. He was half tempted to go back to sleep. But he knew Greg would be right back in here, shaking him awake. He stumbled towards his dressing gown, putting it on and looked for his slippers. They were on the windowsill for some odd reason. He didn't remember putting them there.

"Mew?"

"Go back to sleep Milton." The cat responded by snoring.

"Lucky."

* * *

He was greeted by a delicious smell upon leaving his room. He followed it to a small fold out table in front of the couch. On it was a jug of juice and two plates full of pancakes. Plus assorted toppings. Lestrade was already seated, covering his pancakes in syrup. Sherlock curled up in the other corner of the couch and poured lemon juice and sugar over his pancakes.

"Do you want some pancakes with that-"

"Don't." Greg chuckled.

Sherlock grumbled under his breath, but as Greg turned Sherlock caught the shiny new black eye. When had that happened?! Had Lestrade gone out in the middle of the night and been attacked? Or... it looked new. Meaning he had to have recently received it. Hadn't Greg been trying to wake him? No that was too soon. Unless he tried to wake him earlier in the night because of another nightmare. And Sherlock fought back...that had happened before but he'd never given someone a black eye.

"Lestrade...your eye.."

"Don't think about it sunshine."

"But, I did that didn't I?"

"I said don't think about it. It's fine. Doesn't hurt." A clear lie. Sherlock's own eyes widened.

He'd punched Lestrade. A friend.

"I'm sorry-"

"Enough Sherlock. It was an accident. I'm fine now." That didn't change the fact that he'd hit him..

* * *

They ate their breakfast in silence. Only stopping for the occasional sip of juice, burp or yawning. It was quite nice to have a homemade breakfast for once. He'd had some at Mycroft's of course but somehow it didn't seem to count. They were made by servants, not friends. Greg finished eating earlier than he did and Sherlock watched the man take his things to the kitchen and clean up. Then leave to change and take a shower. He must be leaving soon. Of course, he does after all have a child now. All good things must come to an end. Sherlock used the time to feed Milton, who was mewing at his feet and poking him with a small paw. He was very impatient. Sherlock then decided to take his things into the kitchen as well, but he didn't wash them. Too lazy. Now what? Greg was going to leave soon, what was Sherlock supposed to do with the rest of his day? He could go back to bed...no he was too awake now.

He couldn't leave the house. Sherlock supposed he could read. Oh if only he had something to use as an experiment. He'd been used to being alone and suddenly people were in his life again. But when they left, he felt empty. Perhaps.. perhaps Mycroft could get him a tablet. Then he could use it to read, download important information, write down ideas, search websites. He could do all these normally, but a tablet would make things easier. Yes. If it would take his mind of the monotony of life, then he would ask Mycroft to get him a tablet.

"Finished?" Sherlock jumped.

"Yes. It was... good. Thank you." That was good, wasn't it?

"Not a problem. Um, look, I gotta go and check on Anna and the kid. Then apparently we're going to have lunch at a restaurant with her friends and family."

"Yes, of course. G-goodbye then."

"I'll come and visit you, you clot." He ruffled the confused detective's messy hair.

"You don't have to you know. I am alright by my own. Done it for years."

"Yes, well things change don't they. I'll visit because I want to."

He hesitated and then wrapped his arms around the too thin detective. Really, he needed to eat more. Sherlock responded in kind but let go just as quickly. He was embarrassed, the silly idiot. He should move back into Baker Street. It wasn't right, him being on his own. Not when he wasn't himself. 221B would do him good. Especially with Mrs Hudson just down the stairs. He'd suggest it to Mycroft when he found the time. And Mrs Hudson. And then Sherlock. He ruffled the lad's hair again before picking up the dvds they watched the night before, leaving the others for Sherlock to watch himself.

"Alright, see you later mate!"

"...Goodbye Lestrade."  _Sorry I hurt you.._

* * *

"Mew?"

"Yes, just us again, Milton. No, I will not feed you again. You just ate."

 _Why did he leave the dvds?_  Sherlock supposed he could watch them to pass the time. After bothering Mycroft. Where was the phone?

* * *

"Hey, come on, pick up, pick up. AH! John!"

"Greg? Hey, how are you? How's the baby?"

"Going great, listen, are you free tonight, we could have a pint at the pub. Need to talk to you about somethings."

"Hmm? Sure, I think I'm free, yeah, I am. Mary's got a girls night out, so I can join you for a pint."

"Brilliant, see you tonight! About 8?"

"Alright, bye!"

What did Greg want to talk to him about?

Hopefully not parenting, he had zero ideas on how to look after a baby.


	60. A Pint and Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I knew what part of the year it was in this fic...I forgot. I hope its near christmas! Anyone keeping score?

The lunch went well, but Greg had spent much of his time thinking about what he should say to John. Part of him wanted to yell and swear. The other half understood John's reluctance to see Sherlock again. If only he could reconcile the two. So he barely paid attention during his lunch out, he nodded at the appropriate times, responded if spoken to. But his mind was elsewhere. It had not gone unnoticed by Anna, but she'd let it slide. She knew where he'd been, even if the cover story for his eye was an arrest gone wrong. She'd seen the look in his eyes when he'd returned home. Watched him hold Rupert close. He was hurting because his friend was hurting. And he still blamed himself.

When it was time to leave for the pub, Greg sighed and tried to remain confident. He had to make John understand, really understand. But there was the slightest possibility that John would understand but choose not to return to his damaged friend. And if that happened, Greg would have to accept it and do whatever he could to let Sherlock know people still cared. But how would he tell him his friend no longer wished to be friend anymore? Hopefully that wouldn't happen. Hopefully. He kissed his wife and child on the cheek and she held his in her hands before letting him go. She understood. It was his fate to always be surrounded by perceptive people.

* * *

He arrived to find John already waiting and reading a newspaper. His face lit up upon seeing Greg and they gave each other a short embrace before sitting down.

"What happened to your eye?!" Doctor John looked horrified.

"I'm fine mate. Just an accident."

"Right. Of course it was." John didn't press him for further information. Greg had just had an accident with someone else's fist. "I already ordered, hope that's alright."

"It's fine, mate. I'll go get mine now." It gave him a little extra time to think about what he should say.

Once they were both settled again, their pints waiting in front of them, John put down his newspaper and Greg cleared his throat.

"So."

"So."

"No, you go first."

"No you!"

"This was your idea."

"Right, fine. Sorry!"

"Um, I asked you here so we could have a talk about...things."

John smiled. "What sort of things?"

"Well not things. A person." By the look on John's face, Greg knew he had already guessed the identity of said person.

"Look, I don't need advice about Sherlock Holmes, alright?"

"No I don't think you understand. Sit back down, John. He's a mess. He's...God John. Do you have any idea what he's been through?"

"Mycroft told me."

"Yes, but have you seen it with your own eyes?!"

"He was fine when I last saw him, conscious anyway." John wasn't in the mood to be lectured. He'd deal with his relationship with Sherlock in his own time.

"I was with him yesterday and today. Shit. It was horrible. He told me everything. I don't even think he's told Mycroft all that happened to him. He cried, John. Sherlock Holmes was fucking sobbing in my arms and I couldn't do anything."

"Greg, please-"

"No, I'm not finished. He had nightmares. And he screamed. That's why I have this black eye. He's so different. But at the same time, I think his old self is still in there. But he needs you. He did anything for you because you were closer to him than family. He thinks you hate him. And I can understand if you hate his actions, but by God man, he sacrificed who he was for you and you just ignore him. You yell at him. You weren't there for him when he woke up. Couldn't you have at least visited?! Just once! I know things have been tough for you, especially lately. But-"

"Greg, I know! Ok? I know why he did what he did. But it doesn't help the fact that he still did it. That I went so long hurting for nothing. That he lied to me. Betrayed my trust. Even after everything, those feelings are still there. I wanted to go to him, but what if he had wanted to return to how things had been. We can't do that. Too much has happened. I...to be honest, I don't know what to do."

Greg decided then and there that the pub was no longer the right location for this. And John had kept drinking, even if Greg had only had the one. He paid for their drinks and the two of them left the pub and into the cold. John leans against him, not quite drunk yet.

"What do I do, Greg?" He literally has no idea. It's not just that he's stayed away from Sherlock because of how he felt or what Sherlock had done. It was also because he was stuck on what he should do.

"Talk to him. That's the first thing you should do. Maybe the rest will come later. But you have to see him. It would do a world of good for both of you."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know how much you missed him and I don't believe for a second you would really throw your friendship with him to the wind. You'd regret it for the rest of your life."

John groaned and rubbed his hands over his eyes, pulling away from Greg and leaning on a fence. What should he do? He'd been umming and ahhing for awhile now and had still not reached a conclusion. Abandon Sherlock, or see him. Repair their friendship or destroy what was left. Two options seemed reasonable, the other two did not. But the other two might be for the best. Why was this so hard? It should be easy, the decision should be right in front of him. But there was nothing there from him to grasp. Except Greg's words. See Sherlock. Because Sherlock was not as well as John had thought. It was one thing to know some of what had happened to the detective, but another to see its effects, and Greg had. And it had shaken him.

Sherlock had cried? But he never cried, unless he'd been drugged or was faking it. Just how damaged was he? What.. what if he was like John was in the beginning? Lost, depressed, yearning for light to enter his life again? And just returned from a war. Shit. No, he needed to see Sherlock Holmes, even his alcohol fuelled mind could see that now. It was time to stop putting it aside, afraid of what might happen. He had to suck it up. Put aside his feelings for a moment, to just sit down and talk. Maybe they both would learn something.

"Mate?"

"I'm alright, thought I was going to...but I didn't."

"I thought you could hold your liquor."

"I can." It was something else.

"Come on, I'll get us a taxi."

* * *

Greg knocked on John's door and turned to him. "I'd like to know your decision, when you've made it."

"I'll let you know."  _I'll be sure to tell you._

"Thanks. Night, John."

"Goodnight Greg."

Lestrade left before Mary opened the door.

_I hope you make the right decision mate. Even if it hurts._


	61. Selfish Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is very short and not great. But It needs to come before the actual next chapter.
> 
> Not long now!

"How are you feeling now, John?" Mary handed him a fresh cup of tea, as he massaged his temples.

"Oh, just peachy."  _Like shit._

"Well I don't think you drank enough to make you badly hungover." _No, just to be slightly hungover. Which is still bad._

"Clearly."

"What were you and Greg even doing last night? I thought it was just a friendly chat."  _So did I._

"It was. And..more."

"John..." How could he resist that face?

"He...he'd been to see Sherlock. And he told me about how that encounter went."

"And?"

"Not well."

Oh John.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

John rubbed his eyes. Did he? No, not really. It wasn't like Mary didn't know what Sherlock was like, she'd met him after all. And he didn't want to burden her with his guilt. Still, she had been there with him in that safe house, long enough to learn something about his condition. Sighing, John stood and placed his empty cup on the bedside table. Mary sat down on the bedspread and waited. John had a lot on his mind and Mary felt she could guess some of it already. But it was clear that John was not sure if he should burden her with the information he'd learned.

"I...I don't know. Mary, he's in a bad way."

"You already knew that, John."

"I'm not talking about his injuries. Greg said, he said that Sherlock had screaming nightmares. After he told Lestrade everything that had happened to him."

"That's horrible!" Sherlock had had those once or twice when they'd been in the safe house, but usually he'd slept peacefully. But his sleeping was always erratic or practically non-existant anyway.

"Everything he told me, which wasn't much, it sounds familiar. I think Sherlock might have PTSD, or something along those lines. No one should have to suffer through something like that. Not alone."

"You were alone.."

"In the beginning. And then I met Sherlock. And then, when it happened again I met you. Now..I think perhaps he needs me. I've been selfish."

"Yes. But there's nothing wrong with being selfish sometimes. However, in this instance you are right, he needs you. And you need him."  _More than ever, I think._

"What should I do? Should I go to see him now? Or..or maybe in a few days." Before John could begin to pace, Mary had grabbed his arms and pulled him away from the bed.

"I will tell you what you are going to do. You will take a shower, then pack an overnight bag. You will visit Sherlock Holmes and discuss things for as long as you need to. Then return home. And...we will take things from there."

"...I don't deserve you, do I?" John smiled.

"No. But I am so lucky to have you. Now, off you pop! I'll make you breakfast."

* * *

The taxi ride over was nerve wracking. What would he find? Would his appearance just spark a fight? Was he even doing the right thing? And what if they couldn't talk about what had happened? John knew his emotions would no doubt run wild, anger, sadness, guilt, betrayal. And the same would probably be true for Sherlock. Even if he was more well known for hiding his emotions. John pulled his blue spotted bag towards himself. He hadn't packed much. Just some toiletries, pyjamas and spare clothes for the next day. Mary suggested food, not knowing what Sherlock would even have available, but John thought he would take things as they went. After all, they could always order out. If it came to that.

Finally the cab stopped and John realised he would have to get out and pay. He could just stay inside the car and keep travelling. But that would be unfair to Sherlock, even though the man didn't know he was even coming. And John really felt he had to do this, before he could move on from everything that had happened. The flat was small. Probably not much bigger from the one he'd had before meeting Sherlock. Maybe a little bit bigger. That place had been a box. He stood on the footpath for several minutes, trying to bring himself to knock on the door. He hadn't even planned what to say. He'd spent half an hour in the shower after realising he was going to have to think of things to ask and say, but nothing had come to mind. Nothing appropriate anyway.

His hand paused over the door. Shit, what was he supposed to say?

Hey, long time no see? No.

You look great for a dead man? Definitely no.

Sorry I haven't seen you since you got shot, how are you? Closer.

I've missed you? True, but not an appropriate greeting.

Hello? Hello might work.

John knocked on the door and waited.

And then it opened.

* * *

Silence, John didn't dare look up.

And then in a voice so small, it barely qualified as a whisper...

"John?"


	62. An Unexpected Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not perfect but here it is! More to come, but hopefully not much more.
> 
> Sherlock's probably going to try and act a bit in this and future chapters, to pretend he's alright. But we know he isn't and now John knows too. Anything you feel he should learn first?
> 
> Enjoy!

He'd still been in bed when he heard the knock at the door. It wasn't early in the morning, nor could it be considered late. But Sherlock couldn't think of anyone who would be popping around for a visit at this time of the day. Especially since Lestrade had just left the day before and Mycroft preferred to call him, as did Mrs Hudson. Irene had never visited him and Molly had been communicating via Skype. Something he'd tried to ignore several times. She was too cheerful. Too happy. She had a right to be though, he supposed. But if it wasn't any of the usual, who else would be knocking at his door?

Groaning and wiping the sleep from his eyes, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and searched for his slippers. Milton mewed his indignation as Sherlock stood, reaching for his blue dressing gown. But decided to follow after him as he slowly made his way towards the front door, in hopes there was food involved. There wasn't. Yawning, Sherlock opened the door, expecting to find perhaps someone delivering the mail, or a message from Mycroft. Instead he found the last person he'd ever expected to find on his doorstep.

John Hamish Watson.

Sherlock took a step back, half closing the door. Milton weaved around his legs, settling on his twitching feet. Why was he here? Why? John was staring at the ground, clearly afraid to look up. He hadn't visited him hospital. Or upon his immediate release. So why? Why now? What had changed? Unless...oh, this was Lestrade wasn't it? He'd told him what had happened. That was supposed to be private.  _Note to self, never tell Lestrade anything personal ever again._ Now, what should he do? Close the door? It would mean avoiding more heartbreak, preventing arguments and possible broken bones. It would be a lot safer really, for the both of them. But as he stood there, watching John who looked so small, so resigned, he couldn't just shut the door on him. Even if being unsociable would be incredibly easy.

"John?"  _My throat isn't working...wonderful._

Sherlock wasn't prepared for John's eyes to meet his as the man's head rose. So full of uncertainty. Sherlock swallowed suddenly and wondered what to say next. John however did it for him.

"Hello, Sherlock."

"...yes. Hello I mean."  _What do I do now? Thank you for coming? Or do I invite him in?_

Milton chirped his own greeting before returning inside. There was no food here for him. What a good idea, Sherlock thought to himself, turning around and following his kitten. He left the door open and hoped John would get the message and come inside. He must have because a few minutes later the door closed with a bang. Sherlock busied himself in the kitchen, preparing breakfast for his hungry little beast. When he finally turned around, John was sitting on the living room couch. Well then. Best get things over with. He took a deep breath and left the kitchen and sat down opposite John, in a threadbare armchair.

Neither of them wanted to speak first.

* * *

It was so small.

The flat was so small and lacked the colour usually associated with Sherlock Holmes. The furniture was old and carpet had seen better days. The patterned wallpaper was peeling off in some areas, but he could see words written in Sherlock's messy handwriting in the spaces left. Words such as ' _horrible wallpaper anyway'_ , ' _good riddance'_ ,  _'Mycroft I know you are reading these, hire someone to fix it!'_  and the obvious  _'bored'_. Some things never change, that was good to know. The living room was messy, which he'd expected. The floor was covered in newspapers and notes scribbled on plain A4's and books piled high; constantly teetering. There was a framed picture of an otter on the wall, it looked old and the otter was wearing clothes. A post it note was still stuck to the gilded frame. Love from Molly. Molly...he would need to talk to her some day soon. He wanted to hear things from her point of view.

There was an old couch against the wall, perfect for sleeping on, if it came to that. For now, he would sit here and wait. He still had no idea what to say. Sherlock was thinner than he remembered, the cheekbones stood out more than they'd used to. He had bags under his eyes and was that a hint of a limp? He'd seen him lying on a hospital bed, but attributed everything to the gunshot wound. He'd known things hadn't been great and that Sherlock was still recovering from not only recent injuries but past ones as well. But it was one thing to know and another to see it. As he looked up, he noticed a figure moving around in the adjoining kitchen. A tiny voice crying for attention and food. That was no doubt Milton, who he'd noticed at the door. A little bit bigger but still the same cat. John could hear Sherlock muttering to him and the kitten answering back. He couldn't help but smile. It was already clear Sherlock was smitten with his pet.

When he looked up again Sherlock was sitting on the chair opposite him. How'd he-..no never-mind. He didn't want to know how he'd appeared so quickly. Instead he did a little more deducing of his own. Sherlock's feet tapped the floor, as did his fingers on the armchair. He was nervous, anxious even. And he wouldn't look at John. He didn't blame him, their last two meetings hadn't ended so well. The first with insults and a bloody nose and the second with bullets and wounds. With Sherlock bleeding all over the floor of 221b. He should say something first, to reassure him. But would he believe the man who had constantly avoided him and said the most horrible things.

"It's..good to see you looking so well."  _Well, better than you had in hospital._

"I...uh thank you. You..you look well too."  _Stupid! What sort of reply was that?!_

"Thank you."  _That went well._

"You...you've brought a bag. Why?"  _I could just deduce but I'm not sure if my deductions would be correct._

"Well, I thought...if it was ok with you, I could stay the night? We have a lot to talk about."

"Do we?"

"I think perhaps we do. But we can take as long as we want."

Sherlock finally stopped fidgeting and stood, wrapping his dressing gown around him properly. "Do you want some tea? I need some tea."

"Sherlock!"  _This is hard enough as it is, please don't avoid it._

"It's just tea, John!"  _He sounds like his old self there...but its all just words, isn't it? It's fake. You're hiding._

John sighed and rested his head in his hands. This was going to be a long day.


	63. Questions and Answers: Reprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is alright.
> 
> I JUST WATCHED THE EMPTY HEARSE! And OMG I want spoil it for you but I've been giggling while re-reading Sherlock and John's meeting in my fic and the similarities between it and the event in the episode.
> 
> There's so much humour! And more in the next one!
> 
> So I'm going to try and add more in here. If not this fic then the third one. I've missed writing normal Sherlock.
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy. There is still more. I may even work on it after posting this one.

The tea was decent, Sherlock had remembered how John took his, much to the doctor's surprise. A little hot, but not enough to scald his tongue. Then there was a half hour of almost complete silence, except for attempts at conversation that faded out as soon as they began. John wanted to ask the tough questions, but knew Sherlock would try and evade them. He would have to answer them eventually. They couldn't keep this up forever. John played with the empty teacup on his lap, while Sherlock's fingers drummed a tune on the arm of his chair and his feet twitched against the carpet. His whole body was anxious, a six foot bundle of nerves.

 _Calm down, mate_.

"Sherlock."

"John." It was the sixth time they'd done this. It was getting rather tiring.

"You have to stop doing this."

"Doing what? I'm not doing anything."

"Yes, that's the point. I'm trying to talk to you. Look why do you think I came over here in the first place?"

"Honestly? To yell at me. Obvious." _Well it was my first thought._

"To what?...No Sherlock. To talk. And what aren't we doing?"

"Talking?"  _And not looking at me._

"Ding Dong! That's all I want to do, Sherlock. Just talk." He ignored the muttered and confused repetition of  _ding dong?_

"About what?"

"Anything!"

"No." Sherlock replied, shaking his head, the long curls dancing.  _He really needed a haircut._

"For crying out lo-...why not?"

"Beca-a-a-ause...I don't want to." Sherlock drew out the first word for as long as possible, still staring at the windows rather than John.

"That's not an answer." _What are you, my mother?_

"Look anything you want to know, you can just ask Mycroft."  _Or Lestrade._

"But I want to ask you. I need to hear it from you. Just talk to me, Sherlock. Please...I need to know the why and the how. Mycroft told me some of it but clearly not all of it. Lestrade was the same. Whether they thought they were protecting me or you, I don't know. But I don't need protecting, I've made that quite clear."  _That doesn't mean I won't stop trying to protect you, John._

Sherlock sighed and for a split second, John thought he might leave.

"I can't, John." Not again.

"Look you don't have to tell me anything you aren't comfortable in talking about. We could start easy...uh..where did you go during your...hiatus?"

"Around."

"Sherlock.."

"Alright! Europe, Asia. A lot of places John. I can't be expected to remember them all."

Sherlock was standing now, pacing around the room. His left hand rested against his chin, while his right arm was nestled under his left elbow. He still couldn't keep either hand still. John wanted to hold him, to tell him not to worry so much. He'd never seen Sherlock like this before, except when desperate for a cigarette. Except this was different. Different reasons produce different effects, even if the results looked similar.

"Alright, alright. And you...dismantled Moriarty's network?"

"Yes."

"On your own?"

"Usually."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock..."

"Will you stop saying that! Yes, on my own. Some of Mycroft's men helped. And...maybe Irene Adler."

"Irene?"

"So what if she did?"

"Nothing..nothing."  _What are you implying?_

* * *

This was ridiculous. John could easily get this information of Mycroft.  _Why ask me?_  He had never shown interest in Sherlock's view of things since he'd returned. No, John preferred drawing his own, _wrong_ , conclusions. Instead of listening to what Sherlock had to say. And now that he was here, genuinely asking, the detective couldn't bring himself to answer him. He knew eventually, the questions would turn to what Lestrade would have undoubtably told John. But would he be expected to answer those?

"Ok. Why did you never tell me you were alive?"  _Seriously? You said nothing I would be uncomfortable in saying. Liar._

"Because it was too dangerous."  _We've been over this._

"Oh and I can't handle myself in dangerous situations, can I?" John frowned, he had promised he wouldn't yell but he couldn't stop the frustration and anger slipping into his voice.

"That's not what I meant, John. But there was a sniper watching you, his gun pointing at your head!"

"I know that. But you could have said something! Done something, anything to let me know you were alive. I could have helped you!"

"I said I was sorry! How many times do I have to say I am sorry before you believe me? I did what I did to protect you and the others. It's pointless asking me about anything else. None of it matters!"

John would probably never know that this was the most Sherlock had spoken, all in one sitting, for quite some time. And he'd rarely even raised his voice, except for the previous day with Lestrade. But he was right. None of it mattered in comparison to why he did it. So what if his time away had been difficult, he'd saved lives. He'd saved John. Why should he worry about where he went or what he did. If there had been the slightest chance that he could have told John earlier, he would have. But his safety had been paramount or it would have been all for naught.

Turning his back to John, who was still thinking about how to reply, Sherlock wiped away the water threatening to spill over and down his cheeks. John promised he wouldn't yell. But it had been an empty promise. John always yelled. It wasn't always with malice or intent. Sometimes it was even lighthearted. But John was still hurting too. And Sherlock would keep saying sorry, whether to his friend's face or not, for as long as possible. Until he forgave him. Until he felt it had been accepted. Because he was truly sorry. Apologies were so hard to give and that went doubly for Sherlock. Yet he'd been trying lately to no avail. Just three words. That was all he needed to here. Just three.

_I forgive you._

John sighed. "It's not that easy... I can't just snap my fingers and do away with these feelings." Oh if it were that easy.

"I know, John. But neither can I. What's done is done. Please.. no more questions. There is nothing more you need to know."

"That's not true but, alright. I'll drop it for now." He could see he would get no further. Perhaps later. Perhaps tomorrow.

"Thank you."

Sherlock paused before changing the subject. "Hungry?"

"...starving actually. Do you have any food at all?"

"Of course, Lestrade went shopping. Help yourself."

* * *

_We will talk about this Sherlock. It will hurt, but...it has to be done._

_I'm sorry._


	64. Walking On Eggshells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2! Damn, why am I not done yet! Oh yeah, worrying about HOW SERIES 3 WILL EFFECT THIS FIC. Because do I include events from that at all? AAAHH. Why didn't I finish this before Series 3 came out?
> 
> Because Episode 3 ends on a cliffhanger...DO I INCLUDE THAT AND RESOLVE IT OR NOT?
> 
> WILL THIS FIC NEVER END AND CONTINUE UNTIL THE SERIES FINISHES?
> 
> *Cries*
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> *sob

The freezer proved useful in providing John with a packet of four meat pies. He only needed two, placing them on the bench, taping the packet back up and putting it away. The directions said to keep them in the oven for thirty minutes. The oven was clean, from top to bottom. It had never been used. Figures. Sherlock stayed in the living room, glancing out the murky windows. He was watching the small amount of people that regularly walked by the flat, never knowing the person who lived inside. John stayed in the kitchen until the pies were done, busying himself with making a small amount of sliced potatoes. He sprinkled them parsley, paprika and salt and then placed them in the microwave to cook. It wasn't much of a meal but it would do.

Sherlock's fridge held both a large, glass bottle of water and two cartons of apple and mango juice. The latter sounded very nice. He poured both himself and Sherlock a glass, plopping a few ice cubes in each. Then leaned back against the counter and waited. Annnd waited. Finally there was a  _beep beep beep!_ The pies were ready _._ He removed the pies and placed one on each plate, along with a helping of the potatoes _._  Sherlock didn't seem to have anything resembling a dining table, so he found two trays and brought the food into the living room.

"Here, Sherlock."  _And you better eat it._

"Pies?"

"You have a problem with that?"

"No. I just didn't know I had any. What are these things?"

"They're potatoes, Sherlock."  _Yes I know that._

"Yes but, whats all this? I haven't seen potatoes like this before."

"It's Mary's own recipe, ok? Don't turn your nose up at it."

"I wasn't.."  _You know I can just be curious sometimes. Not everything is an insult. Usually._

They ate in silence, Sherlock only finishing most of his pie and half his potatoes. John found himself tutting as he finished the leftovers for him. The detective was too thin for his liking. He needed to eat more. One might have thought that during his time away, he would have put on more muscle. But it seemed he hadn't. Or he had and he'd already lost it. Which was worrying. John cleaned then put their dishes away, while Sherlock poured a drink for Milton. Who was unsure of John's presence in the flat and hissed whenever he got near. Not very friendly at all.

"Are you going to get dressed at some point?"

"Why? This is more comfortable."

"So, you're going to stay in your pyjama's all day?"

"Yes, of course. Does that bother you?" Sherlock gave John a quizzical look.

"No. I was just curious. Um...listen, do you mind if I have a tour of your flat?"  _Why? It's boring._

"Help yourself." _Which meant, I'm not giving you a tour. Explore on your own free time._

"Thanks, I will."

* * *

One would expect that a house with a Sherlock Holmes living in it, would have acquired, over time, a basic Sherlockness to it. 221B had. This flat, however, had not. Oh the messiness was there, the few quirky add ons present. But it didn't feel like a place where Sherlock lived. It didn't feel like a home to John. It was missing the other eccentricities that usually came from Sherlock being Sherlock. Had he lived here at all? Or only existed?

John's tour didn't take long.

There was a dingy little, yellow bathroom with a shower and bath. The mirror was smudged with something, probably toothpaste, hair product and who knew what else. The tiles around the centre of the room were in need of replacement. They would have been in style about thirty years ago. Opening the medicine cupboard he found a great deal of medical supplies. That must have been handy. If he'd even used them. The bedroom wasn't much different. Decent sized bed, incredibly messy. Small amount of furniture. Clothes lay on the floor. Mainly trousers and various coloured shirts. In the corner was a cat bed that seemed unused.

There wasn't much else to see. A study with a single table covered in laboratory equipment. Papers and pictures stuck to a wall, decorated with red thread. He had to duck under them to get inside. There was a laptop perched precariously on a pile of books. And there was a burn in the carpet. Not really satisfied with what he had seen he headed back towards the living room, Sherlock was reaching underneath the couch, his hands searching for something. Milton wasn't helping, as the kitten was sitting on his back.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for something."

"Looking for what, exactly? Maybe I can help?"  _I doubt it._

"My telescope. Ah!" Sherlock pulled a long box out from beneath the couch and rested it against his armchair.

"I didn't know you had a telescope."

"I didn't originally. I do now." Oh.

"It's just, I never thought you were interested in space that much."  _You said you could appreciate it but thats different._

"Amazing what one can miss, whilst imprisoned in a tiny cell without the light of the moon." Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, just talking to myself. Mycroft brought this for me."

"Bored?"

"Very."

Sherlock set it up and left it by the window. It had originally been out but after tripping over it a few days ago while searching for something, he had decided it was safer to store it somewhere. He just could never remember where that safer place was supposed to be. Which meant things were usually,  _very_  safe. There, now it ready for tonight. He ignored John's curious gaze and throw the empty box to the side for Milton to play in.

Now what?

More awkward conversations and walking on metaphorical eggshells? He could hardly contain his delight.

"Where do you intend to sleep tonight?" There was the couch but perhaps John would prefer to go home instead.

"Oh, just the couch. You don't have blankets and a pillow I could borrow, do you?"

"Yes, I could find something suitable for you."

"Thanks. Why'd you ask, if you don't mind? Bit early isn't it?"

"Just trying to make conversation, John."

You did want to talk, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE:
> 
> About the potatoes...THEY ARE REALLY NICE LIKE THAT! It's how I make them at home.
> 
> Basically peel your potatoes, two decent sized ones are fine for one person.
> 
> Cut them into slices. Not chip or wedge slices but clean circles. Place them in a little bowl or small casserole like dish. And with each layer sprinkle them with parsley, mild paprika and salt. You can include pepper. And top it off with a little bit of butter/margarine. The more you make add an extra bit of margarine.
> 
> I put mine in the microwave for about 9 mins. You may want to increase the time slightly if you make more than a two people serving.
> 
> ITS VERY NICE.
> 
> And I included the pies because when I hear most people on the internet mention pie its always a fruit pie? Which is weird? Here pie is meat. Mince beef pie. Usually. Sometimes chicken.
> 
> I love pie.
> 
> Pie is good.


	65. Running Away Is Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are these constant updates ok with you? Trying to get this fic done before Episode 3. Probably wont be done before then, but a little after is alright? Episode 2 was wonderful and amazing and so many things I have to decide: do I include that? Or this? Or that scene, or that idea and theory? SO MANY DECISIONS.
> 
> Our two boys are still being awkward. I've tried to push them a little but they don't want to budge. It's very frustrating. Sherlock doesn't believe John really cares. Weeeelll he does but not as much as he used too. And John is still finding it difficult to say the words, I forgive you.
> 
> But hopefully he will very soon.
> 
> Enjoy.

The rest of the afternoon crawled by slowly. They watched some of the Doctor Who episodes that Lestrade had left behind for Sherlock to watch. John played with a still hostile Milton, while Sherlock conducted an experiment on one of the mouldy bananas. Which John quickly disposed of. They spent most of the afternoon in silence, except for the occasional burst of small talk. John didn't know what to say half the time and Sherlock didn't know how to answer. Eventually Sherlock shut himself in his study with a large quantity of red thread. He'd left Milton on John's lap, because _he would get in the way._ This wasn't going very well at all.

_Bzz Bzz._

Was that his phone? He sure hoped so or there was a bee in his pocket..

"Hel-lo?"

"John?"  _Mary!_

"Mary, hello. Is something wrong?"  _Please say yes, I'm not sure if I can stay here._

"What? No. I was just calling to see how things were going." She sounded so optimistic.

"Oh! Great. Really great."

"...Fibbing, John."  _Wonderful._

"It's...not going so well. He won't answer my questions and when he does it's mostly yes or no. Or he'll mutter the answer under his breath. He even answered in french earlier. He really is not interested in opening up to me."

"That's no good! Where is he now?"

"He's locked himself in the bloody study. Who knows what he's doing in there."

"Ok. Ok. You're just going to have to try harder."

"You know, I don't think I should. Who am I to make him face those memories again. They were obviously very traumatic and I have no right to do that." Who knows what would happen?

"At least let him know you're here for him and you've forgiven him."

"...Mary."

"Not yet? Oh John how long is it going to take? Those feelings aren't going to go away until they are addressed. You should forgive him, John. Or what you both went through would have been for nothing."

"It's not that easy! I can't just put aside years of pain and hurt like that."

"So what, you'll make him wait? Beg for it? John Watson, you are not that sort of a man and you know it. You're just afraid."

"What makes you say that?"

"...Because you worry it's already too late. You were rambling about it last night. And he's changed. He's different. You can see it, can't you?"

"...I don't know, he seemed fine to me."

"Oh that's utter rubbish and you know it. Look stop talking to me and go talk to him!"

"Wait...Wait Mary?!" Damn. She'd hung up.

_Very helpful._

She was right though. As always. He did worry. And Sherlock was different. He didn't want to notice it. He knew about about. Of course he knew. But it was another thing to see it. And the man he'd seen, so far, today...was not the Sherlock Holmes John was used to. He was anxious, nervous and worried. Being unsociable was normal for him, being quiet for hours was normal. Except...there are different kinds of silence. And this silence was painful. It hurt. Sherlock had run away from his problems, his problems being John. And John didn't blame him. He'd been a right arse at the time Sherlock had needed him most.

He just had to hope there was still time to mend his friendship with the detective.

He had to hope he wasn't too late.

* * *

The door had an Out Of Order sign hung on a little hook. John removed it, took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

"Go away."

"Sherlock let me in please."

"No. Please leave."

"You want me to leave?"

"Yes."

"Go home?"

"If you don't mind."

"Alright then. Goodbye. Was lovely to see you."

John slowly walked away from the door, counting in his head.  _5...4...3...2...1._  The door opened.

"John!" The doctor quickly turned around, pretending to be confused.

"Yes?"

"...Um...please don't go."

"You want me to stay?"

"Please." The look on his face was heart breaking. He'd actually believed John was going to leave. His eyes were even red.

"Of course I'll stay. What were you doing in there anyway?" John chose to ignore this friend's appearance and reaction for the moment and found that his friend was all the more grateful for it.

"Mapping." Sherlock opened the door to the study and ducked.

The room was covered in papers, pins and red thread. It was like a laser grid. That crossed from one wall to the other. There were pictures of people, files from new cases and old cases, newspaper cuttings. But none of it made sense to John.

"What are you mapping then?"

"Old cases. Lestrade dropped some off. Several at once. It got...complicated."

"Yes I can see that."

Sherlock turned around and tripped over one of the threads lowest to the ground. And managed to get himself tangled in his own map. John couldn't help but chuckle at the man's helpless expression before freeing him. "Come on, let's go back out here."

"But my map.."

"You can finish it later." He placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, feeling the younger man flinch and then relax.  _It's alright mate._

* * *

The returned to the living room where John asked Sherlock a familiar question. What did he want for tea? A take away was an obvious option. And turned out to be the one they both preferred. So John ordered chinese. And while they waited, Sherlock ever twitching, John decided he should tell Sherlock the truth about earlier. It was only fair. He had worried the man.

"You know, I wasn't really going to leave."

"I know."

"Did you though?"

"Of course. It was just a trick."

"Alright. Just checking." John leaned back.

"Would have made sense though." Sherlock murmured. John hadn't been able to decide if the whispering was meant to be heard or not. He'd been doing it a lot.

"What was that?"

"Nothing.."

"Would have made what? Sense? If I had left, that would have made sense to you?"

"John it was nothing."

"Answer the question, Sherlock." He didn't yell, he said it calmly and politely.

"Yes! It would have made sense! I'm not exactly great company. I never have been. And I'd been ignoring you so it would have made sense if you had wanted to leave." Sherlock now looked away at the darkening sky outside.

"That didn't bother me. And you are good company, Sherlock." The detective scoffed at this.

"Of course it bothered you. I bother you. I bother everyone. It's what I do! Bother people and solve murders. Mmmm fun!"

"Don't change the subject."  _And stop trying to hide behind your sarcasm._

Sherlock was saved from replying by the bell at the door  _(he had a bell?)_  and bit his lip to keep back the retort. Though he'd been enjoying the argument. He hadn't had one in ages. But of course it would take John to break that little seal in his mind. Part of him wanted to tell John how much it had hurt when he'd rejected him and kicked him out into the dark. How alone it had made him felt and how much it had confirmed his belief that upon returning, he would be hated. But here was John. Trying to make amends? Or just plain guilty? John was a good person but good people can still do bad things.

"We'll talk about it later, Sherlock."  _Oh that was always bad news. What a horrible sentence._

"We'll see, John."

We will definitely see.


	66. Forgiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this is ok. YES ITS ANOTHER CHAPTER SSSSSH.
> 
> Ok theres this one I think and then:
> 
> • Back to 221b.
> 
> • Mycroft.
> 
> • Christmas?
> 
> Not totally sure. But almost almost almooooooost done!
> 
> I just really want to work on the next one. So much to work with!

Their tea was enjoyable to say the least. Sherlock found he had some trouble with the chopsticks, his hand prone to shaking. But he hid it well from John, whose gaze was focused on a television movie with appalling plot lines. John seemed entertained by it, Sherlock could barely look at the screen. He used the excuse of disposing of his and John's empty boxes and tubs, to get away from the terrible script and ridiculous monsters. But once that was over and done with, he had no choice but to return to the living room and suffer. He was lucky, the movie looked to be nearing it's end now. Wonderful. The day was nearing it's own end. A perfect night for watching the stars.

As he pondered which section of the sky to stargaze this time, something on the TV screen caught his eye, a fire had erupted, exploding a building as they usually did in movies. It was more dramatic that way. But the sound was loud and the flames flickered near the actor's feet as he ran...The fire danced, the embers glowed hot as they leapt from the wreckage of the house. It burned bright. The fire...the fire..it..

Fuck.

Everything was slowly fading away. He knew what this was. Why now?

Think! Think!  _Stop it, I must stop it!_

* * *

_Glowing embers flickered in a black pot. A long rod stood straight_ **STOP!**

_A pale hand gripped the rod, a black skull ring shined against the light of the fire.._ **NO I'VE HAD THIS ONE.**

**NOT AGAIN.**

**NO MORE.**

_The rod was lifted, it's end; a firey emblem in the shape of a bird. The holder walked towards_ **NO! MUSTN'T..NOTREAL...**

_A body on a slab twitched and fought against his bindings. The bindings... **DON'T!**_

_The brand is pressed against the sole of his foot._

_Screams._

Sherlock screamed.

_Laughter. Lot's of laughter._

"Sherlock!"

**NOT REAL. NOT REAL! FAKE!**

**WRONG!**

_Yelling. Screeching. Whips slashing across white skin._

**Please...**

"Sherlock! It's ok. It's not real."

The detective curled into himself, hiding his face behind his dressing gown. Shivering and whimpering as he cowered from John who looked on helplessly as he tried to reach his friend. The movie's credits had begun to scroll against the screen when John had turned to ask Sherlock a question. But Sherlock had been staring at the TV, his eyes wide, his body rigid. And then he'd jumped in his seat, his hands reaching to cover his ears, muttering no over and over again. John knew these signs. He may have acted differently, but he was still a doctor as well. This was a flashback. Sherlock had had a small one back in 221b while they were fighting Moran. But John hadn't even given that much thought afterwards. It had paled in comparison to the detective getting shot.

"Breathe, Sherlock. Come on. Deep breaths."

After turning off the TV, John knelt in front of his shaking friend, pulling close to him his pack from the couch. He unzipped it, pulled out an ipod and unwound the headphones. He wasn't sure if this would work. It had been suggested to him long ago, but John quite often yelled and lashed out during his episodes so they had never really worked for him. He was a lot more violent than Sherlock. John continued to talk calmly to his friend, reminding him he was there and leaned forward to plug an earbud in each ear. Choosing a calming instrumental song, John placed the ipod in Sherlock's lap and held his wringing hands, rubbing them.

"I'm here. It's alright Sherlock."

* * *

**Sounds. No, music. Music? Why music?**

_Pain..._

**No, music. Orchestral..soothing string instruments. Violin? No...viola. And cello. It's nice...very nice. But where is it coming from? And who is that talking?**

Sherlock opened his eyes, seeing only silky fabric. He pulled it further across his face, enjoying it's texture. The rest of the world orientated itself to normality, Sherlock watched it do so over the edge of his gown. Darkness outside. Night. Stars. The stars! He leaped forward only for the headphones to rip from his ears and for someone to grasp his face with both hands. What?! Who...?

"Sherlock, hey easy there. No calm down it's alright."

Sherlock, eyes wide, gaped at John. Not really seeing him straight away. But the hands never wavered. "It's John. It's John Watson. You're back in your flat."

John...yes. John. Of course it was John. Oh...wonderful. He'd seen him have a proper flashback this time. At least it hadn't been one where he'd cried out various embarrassing things. Things to made Mycroft frown and bite his lip. Or make Molly cry.  _Can't breathe, can't..._  Deep breaths. Hadn't he said that? Sherlock tried to even out his breathing. It wasn't easy. John gently pulled Sherlock to the floor, trying to ground him as he rubbed circles into his back.

"That's good. In and out. You're doing great, Sherlock."  _No...I'm really not._  Though his breathing was a lot better.

"...I'm...sorry." John brightened when Sherlock opened his mouth only for his heart to tighten at his words.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. I should have realised sooner. But it's over now. Do you need anything? Do you want a drink?" John started to get up, intending to make them both tea.

"Don't go." Sherlock whispered. He would leave him. He had to stay.  _No...that was a ridiculous thought._

"I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

John did eventually leave his friend to fetch him a blanket from his room and making him a cup of tea. Or he had at least that had been his intention. It had been made a little difficult with the detective following him to each room. While the kettle boiled, John wrapped Sherlock Holmes in a fluffy blue blanket. Sherlock hadn't spoken since asking him to stay. His bottom lip was full of worry and his eyes shined. He had tried to hide the tears from John. Sherlock had even rolled his eyes when the first ones fell. As if angry at them for daring to escape in front of John. And when the tea was ready he had ripped the cup from John's hands and swallowed it too fast. And burning his tongue. Fortunately there were ice-cubes to immediately press against the scalded area. John had had a moment of fear, worrying the heat would trigger him also. But it hadn't, so John was able to breathe easy.

Knowing the detective would follow him, John headed back into the living room, sitting on the couch and looking at the clock on the wall. It was an old clock, it didn't have numbers only roman numerals. But it was late. And perhaps the both of them should have an early night. But Sherlock made his way straight to the telescope, gazing at the stars. It calmed him down so John didn't stop him. Instead he searched for a pillow, finding a cupboard filled with sheets, blankets and two duvets. And a pillow, right at the very top. To high for John to reach it. He'd get it later. Must be a step ladder somewhere. He returned to the living room and sat back on the couch, removing his pyjamas from his bag and placing them next to him. On top of the sheet and duvet. Sherlock turned around for a second, before looking back into the telescope.

"See anything interesting?"

"Stars."

"If you don't mind me asking, why such a fascination with them? You were never interested before."

Sherlock looked down at the floor. Did he answer? He knew he didn't have to. But he owed John at least a reply. "I..I missed it. And when I returned home I couldn't stop myself looking at the stars and moon." His reply was barely heard but was explanation enough for John. He could deduce the rest.

"I see. Is it beautiful?" Sherlock's lip twitched.

"Yes."

"Good. It should be. Listen.. I'm thinking of turning in for the night. Do you have a stepladder I could borrow? I need a pillow."

Sherlock paused for a moment and then folded up the telescope. He should probably try and get some sleep as well. Without saying a word, Sherlock opened the linen cupboard and retrieved the pillow from the top shelf and brought it back to John. Who accepted it with delight and set about turning the couch into a rather comfortable looking bed. And then while John showered, Sherlock fixed his own bed, removing the blanket from his shoulders and spreading it over the duvet. Milton, who had been sleeping on the bed for most of the night, opened an eye and yawned before falling back to sleep.

Would he even get sleep tonight? It was always hard after a flashback. The best he could do was try. And hope he didn't wake John.

"Sherlock?"

The detective poked his head around the door. "Sherlock can you come here please?"

John was sitting on the duvet in blue striped pyjamas, his hands clasped together. "Sit down for a second?" Sherlock did as he was asked. He usually did nowadays.

"Listen...um..you know I'll always be here for you, if you need me."

"Will you?" Sherlock replied quietly.

"Yes I will. I'm your friend, Sherlock. And you will always be dear to me and..I just want you to know that..that.." John's voiced croaked and he took a deep breath before continuing.

"That I f-forgive you. I don't like what you did or how you did it. Or that you never let me knew you were alive. But I acknowledge why you did it. And so I forgive you."

Forgive...he was forgiven? Sherlock felt his own eyes begin to water and swallowed hard. Stay together. Don't cry. For goodness sakes, do not cry in front of John again. But it couldn't be helped. He cried silent tears. But he didn't know if it was from happiness or just raw emotion that had built up and built up for months and had now released itself. Strong arms enveloped him and Sherlock rested his face against John's warm jumper and gripped it with both hands. Don't make a sound. Don't let him know.

But John knew. He was surprised by the reaction, but only because he had not expected it. Oh Sherlock. I'm so sorry. I should have done this sooner. If only I'd known the depth to which you'd desired my forgiveness. And if I'd only known what you'd been through. I should have listened to you instead of throwing you out. But I can't do anything about that now, only make amends as you have tried to do. A sob erupted from Sherlock's throat and John held him tighter until Sherlock was ready to let go and stumble, limping actually, to his room. Sherlock was embarrassed but stopped at his door to say a soft goodnight.

Good night mate.


	67. Project 221b

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 70? 70?!
> 
> SEVENTY?
> 
> I was going to have him move straight away, but even Mycroft would have to take a day or two. So the next chapter might be an overview of what happened after this chapter and then time skip to Sherlock moving back in? That sound ok?
> 
> I hope so because idk what else to do.
> 
> I want to keep most of the look of 221 but have a few things different. Like maybe some new furniture and decorations. Someone getting a TARDIS teapot. Feel free to add your own ideas.
> 
> At the end of this chapter you will find quotes relating to space and there are inspiration for the sequels name. Just wanting to know your thoughts. Give me your brains dear readers, for I desire your help.
> 
> ENJOY.

Sherlock awoke with a start, his clock displaying that it was only 4:35am. Sighing, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He could just try and go back to sleep. It had only been a minor nightmare. If there was such a thing. And John hadn't come running to his room, so there had been no crying out or screaming. Unless...Sherlock pulled himself out of bed and crept down towards the living room. The doctor was still asleep on the couch, dead to the world. He hadn't left. Why should he? It had been needless worrying, Sherlock told himself as he headed back to his bedroom.

But an idea sprung to mind and as much as he tried to dismiss it, he couldn't deny it's appeal. And the fact that it would solve his inability to believe John would stay, as well as helping his nightmares, was too irresistible. He retrieved his duvet, blue blanket and pillow from his room and dragged them back to the living room. He laid them next to the couch, wrapped himself up in a comfortable cocoon of blankets and went back to sleep. And this time, there were no more nightmares. At some point that night, John's hand slipped over the edge of the couch and his knuckles rested on the floor. And Sherlock's hand found his, both of them unconsciously holding onto the other.

At least that was his theory, John had woken up that morning to find himself holding Sherlock's hand, who was fast asleep next to the couch. All he could see was a tuft of dark curly hair and the hand holding onto his. Glad Sherlock couldn't see the embarrassment that was no doubt present on his face, he very gently removed his hand from Sherlock's grasp. The hand curled inwards, as if missing John's, and disappeared beneath the blankets. He felt a little guilty, but what was he supposed to do? Wait until the detective woke up? That could be hours. And he needed a piss.

_Bzz Bzz._

A text? But it was so early, well nine o'clock in the morning. He opened his phone and glanced down, it was from Lestrade. Oh that's right, wasn't he supposed to tell him how things went?

* * *

_Hey mate, sorry to bother you. Mary said you were at Sherlock's flat?_

_GL_

_No it's fine. Just got up. Yeah, stayed over last night._

_JW_

_And?_

_GL_

_And what?_

_JW_

_And, how did it go?_

_GL_

He was asking this now?

_Not great. Well, he had a flashback last night._

_JW_

_Shit. Is he alright now?_

_GL_

_Seems to be, he's still asleep at the moment._

_JW_

_Have you too, resolved your differences?_

_GL_

_Some of them. Enough to satisfy him._

_JW_

There would probably be things they would still need to talk about. But not today.

_Good, good. Glad to hear it. Listen, I've been chatting to Mrs Hudson and she thinks Sherlock should move back in 221b. And I agree._

_GL_

_Oh? Sounds like a good idea._

_JW_

_Though you might say that. So you have to convince him._

_GL_

_What? Now? Today? Can't it wait?_

_JW_

_No. Talk to him today about it. The sooner the better in my opinion. Alright, talk to you later. Bye._

_GL_

_Bye..._

_J_ _W_

* * *

It did sound like a good idea. Sherlock should move back into 221, it would do him a world of good. It was familiar, there was more room and Mrs Hudson was just downstairs. He decided to bring it up at the earliest opportunity. But now, he really did need the loo and then perhaps some tea. And it was to the high pitched whine of the kettle, that Sherlock awoke to hear. He groaned and pulled the covers further across his head. But it was too late, John had seen the movement coming from the pile of blankets. Pouring two cups of tea, he waited by Sherlock's 'cocoon' until a pale hand shot out from beneath the blankets.

"No, you have to get up if you want tea." Sherlock considered making a rude gesture in reply but decided against it. Too much effort.

Groaning and rubbing his eyes, Sherlock slowly sat up, resting his head against the side of the couch. A blanket was still over his head, the rest of the duvet was tangled around his long form. Though barely even able to open his eyes, he waved at the cup of tea until it was pressed into his hands. John sat down on the couch with his and they both drank in silence. When John's was finished he plucked up the courage to ask Sherlock about moving.

"Listen, I had a thought-"

"Oh dear." Sherlock muttered into his cup. John decided to ignore the comment, even if it sounded so wonderfully familiar.

"I said I had a thought that you should move back into 221b."

"Oh? Why?"

"Why? You'd be closer to everyone, there would be more room for you to spread things out. Mrs Hudson is just downstairs, I don't see the downside."

"It would take time to arrange, move things over and everything."

"Get Mycroft to do it."

"He'd be too busy."

"No he wouldn't."

"Don't you want to move back into 221b?" John couldn't understand why Sherlock wasn't enthusiastic about this idea.

"Well of course but-"

"Then it's settled! Good." John picked up Sherlock's discarded cup and took it back into the kitchen.

But...he couldn't move back into 221b. He'd be alone. Because John now lived with Mary. The flat would be just as dismal and boring as this one. More familiar perhaps but it would no longer be the same. Why didn't John understand that? However, if he did move back, there would be so much space. And surely a lot of his old things still remained? Mrs Hudson and John could not have thrown out  _everything._ There was also the possibility to change 221b, get rid of the little things that bothered him, add new things he'd collected over his time away. But what would he do with that spare room?

"Sherlock, you alright?"

"What? Course I am. Just thinking."

"You looked concerned."

"Just your imagination, John." John chuckled, pleased Sherlock was sounding like his old self.

"I'm going to get changed."  _So early? I suppose you are eager to return home to your..Mary._

Sherlock made no effort to move from his current position until loud piercing cries echoed from his room. Milton had discovered he was gone and then later discovered he was hungry. Both these discoveries meant he must announce his feelings to the world.

"Please shut up."

"...mew." Always had to have the last meow.

* * *

_He said yes to moving back to 221._

_JW_

_Great! I'll tell Mrs Hudson and Mycroft. You two haven't been on the best of terms lately, so I better speak to him to avoid having to arrest you._

_GL_

_Oh thanks. Thanks a lot._

_JW_

_Alright, thanks for letting me know! Bye._

_GL_

_Bye._

_JW_

* * *

"Hello? Mrs Hudson? It's Greg."

"Oh, Greg dear! What can I do for you?"  _Oh I hope it's about what I think it is._

"John's talked to Sherlock and it's a Go on Project 221b."  _Yes!_

"Yes! Lovely, thank you. I'll give the flat a dust and tidy up later. Oh it will be so nice to have him back home again! It's where he belongs, you know."

"Yes I know. And he will be a lot closer to everyone else, so we can keep an eye on him."

"Exactly. He's a grown man but he does get up to some ridiculous things."  _And childish things._

"Absolutely. Look I'd love to continue talking but there's one more person to speak to."  _I can guess._

"Yes, of course. Go, go. Give my love to Anna and the baby!"

"I will. Good bye Mrs Hudson."

"Bye."

* * *

Lestrade's call to Mycroft went very differently compared to his texts to John and phone-call to Mrs Hudson. For starters he quickly deduced the reason for the call, his keen eyes watching the CCTV footage from Sherlock's flat. Though there was little to no sound on most of them. But it had been apparently obvious to Mycroft Holmes. So Project 221b was going ahead and they would all have Sherlock finally back where he belonged. And hopefully it would improve things for him. He'd been alone for far too long and been through far too much. It wasn't that people thought he couldn't live where he was now. But it wasn't home and Greg would sleep much better at night knowing Sherlock was in Baker St, knowing he was close by and Mrs Hudson was downstairs if needed.

And everyone knew Sherlock missed the place.

It was his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Yours is the light by which my spirit's born: - you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars"
> 
> "Moonlight drowns out all but the brightest stars."
> 
> "We all shine on…like the moon and the stars and the sun…we all shine on…come on and on and on…"
> 
> "The moon is friend for the lonesome to talk to."
> 
> "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.'
> 
> "We are all of us stars, and we deserve to twinkle."
> 
> "among the iridescent stars" (last line from Darker Shade of Indigo)
> 
> "Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;   
> I have loved the stars too fondly, to be fearful of the night."


	68. Home Is Where The Heart Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was intending to make this a little longer, but I'll leave it for the next chapter. I think one or two more, christmas? then finish.
> 
> Then onto the new problems Series 3 has left me to deal with. The first two episodes are easy. BUT WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH HIS LAST VOW?!
> 
> AND MARY?!
> 
> After this fic is done I'll leave an authors note explaining the problems that HLV may cause in relation to my story.
> 
> This is a filler it's taken three days to write.

It took about a week to move Sherlock Holmes back into 221b. But it was long enough for them to pack up everything Sherlock wanted to keep, arrange for him to live in Baker Street, take apart furniture, and for Sherlock to have another flashback. A short one this time with John being able to ground him almost immediately. Sherlock dearly wished the doctor had forgiven him sooner, things were so much easier with a John around the house. He'd almost forgotten and he'd missed it. Sherlock could tell John missed him too. Almost tell. It had become harder to deduce John Watson's thoughts. But John's hidden smiles, his laughter and his teasing, all spoke more then any uncertainty Sherlock still held. Though part of him wondered if he was now the one with trust issues.

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the floor, still in his pyjamas. He seemed to own no other kind of clothes. At least nothing casual and comfortable. He was surrounded by cardboard boxes, much to his displeasure. He held a black felt tip pen in one hand and the front of a box in the other. There were plenty of boxes still needing to be filled. They'd already packed his books, linen and some of his clothes. John had few ideas what were in the rest of the boxes. If only they had clear titles. Some simply said 'STUFF', others had scientific names or unnecessarily large words, and then there were two that had frowning faces. It probably didn't matter. John put to the side Sherlock's finished box so he could tape it closed. This one had WORDS written on it. Sighing he put it with the others. It would really help if the titles were clear.

"Sherlock, you can't put beakers in with food! Besides I told you the food will be taken over tomorrow morning!"

"Then it doesn't matter, does it? Oh do what you like." John was already removing the food and putting it back in the fridge. The things that did not need to be kept cool were placed in the large wicker basket sitting on the kitchen bench.

"And your clothes can go in the suitcase." John pulled a pair of trousers from a box marked 'SCIENCE'. Which was really where the beakers should be going.

"What suitcase?"

"The one hidden under those sheets. Speaking of which, why aren't they with the rest of the linen?"

"Not keeping them. Horrible colour. Mycroft will get me new ones, my bed in Baker Street is slightly bigger than this one anyway." John shrugged and dropped the sheet.

"You're making all of this a lot harder than it actually is, you know." Sherlock decided to ignore that comment and scribble on a new box.

"And everything would also be easier if Milton did not have to test every box."

"It's an experiment. He's not doing any harm." Sherlock pretended to look shocked.

John shook his head, chuckled and taped up the next box. There was no arguing with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

And when Sherlock eventually found himself in front of 221b that evening, he was filled with trepidation. John was still back at his flat, having arranged for Sherlock to be taken over before him, so he could pack the last of his friend's belongings and so that Sherlock had a bit of privacy while reacquainting himself with his old home. He shouldn't be feeling so nervous, he told himself, his hand still hovering over the doorknob. Mrs Hudson was out, getting groceries, and John would be there soon. It was just a flat and nothing more. Just a place to lay his head, to spend his boredom filled days with cases or books or vandalism. It had good memories nestled inside it's walls. Wonderful memories. But where there is the good, there is also the bad. Dark days where spent inside 221. Danger nights, wounds and broken bones. Fights and angry silence. Grief. Quite a bit of grief in fact.

But it was just a flat.

The other one, it had never felt right, always a reminder of how things had changed and what he had lost. But it had only been a flat too. Locations shouldn't cause him to be filled with so much emotion and yet they were. Sherlock took a deep breath and turned the doorknob. The inside was dark but just as he'd remembered. The seventeen steps. He took to the stairs, number fourteen still squeaked much to his pleasure. He allowed himself half a minute to enjoy the sound before stepping towards the next door. This time he didn't bother with needless worrying, opening it immediately but not stepping through. He wanted to catalogue everything and check it with the one filed away in his memory.

_You're a doctor. In fact you're an army doctor._   
_Yes._   
_Any good?_   
_Very good._   
_Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths._   
_Well. Yes._   
_Bit of trouble too I bet._   
_Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much._   
_Want to see some more?_   
_Oh god yes._

It was cleaner. But still the same flat. Some personal items were missing and would need to be replaced, if they hadn't been already with the ones from his other flat. No old cases littered the floor of this living room, all the books were in their shelves, and no letters and files were haphazardly placed in various locations around the room. Instead the room was filled with boring, brown cardboard boxes. His whole life for some time, tucked away inside. Sherlock shook his head and continued. The kitchen didn't smell of smoke and chemicals anymore and the fridge was clean. The table was empty. Fit for eating on. Sherlock continued his journey to his bedroom. Again tidy, but it usually had been when he'd lived here. The sheets and duvet were new as were the covers on his pillows. And even the wardrobe still held some of his old disguises.

_Back to bed. You'll be fine in the morning. Just sleep._   
_Of course I'll be fine. I am fine. I'm absolutely fine._   
_Yes, you're great. Now I'll be next door if you need me._   
_Why would I need you?_   
_No reason at all._

The bathroom was untouched and smelt of soap and oddly enough, vanilla. Someone must have sprayed the room so it didn't smell so much like blood and sweat and he didn't remember what else.

_Look shut up and place your hand here. You need to stop the bleeding._

_It hurts, John._

_It's just a flesh wound, stop being a baby._

_Pouting won't change anything_

He finished is tour back in the living room, where he finally knelt down and opened the cat carrier sitting by the front door. Milton didn't seem too unhappy about being left alone while his owner reminisced. He seemed afraid in fact, this place was strange and different. But in no time at all he'd claimed John's old chair as his own. The back of the chair to be exact. Sherlock watched him, wishing everything was that easy. A quick look around and then the kitten was fine. But for him, things were different. Too many memories, too many memories! He hadn't expected them to hit him so quickly. Why should he remember those things upon looking through his flat? What had triggered them to surface? He couldn't really have just missed this place, was that the answer?

It would be true, now that he sat in his old chair and stared at the face on the wall. These walls, these rooms, this flat, they had become a part of him, in such a short time. Just like many other aspects of his life now. Things and people he had never expected to come close to or to have them matter so much to him. Life was supposed to be surprising, not always to the brother's Holmes but he was please in way that this time it had surprised him. Mycroft had always said caring was not an advantage. But he still cared. And Sherlock knew he was proud his brother was the same. He'd never fitted in like Mycroft while had school. He had never found anywhere that felt like home until now.

"You ok?" Sherlock stood with a start.  _Stupid! reminisce and muse of ridiculous things in your own time!_

"Yes, fine. Just thinking." John placed his burdens on the floor near the cat carrier.

"I'm here... if you need to share those thoughts."  _Nice of you to offer. You are really trying to make amends aren't you?_

"I'm fine. I was...just being silly." He replied with a small smile.

"Well theres nothing wrong with that." John mirrored him before picking up the suit case and dragging it over to Sherlock.

"The rest of your clothes are here, the basket has all the food that was left. And well all the contents of these boxes will probably be obvious only to you but I'm willing to help." Good.

"Thank you. Does Mrs Hudson know I am returning today?"

"No, she thinks you are arriving tomorrow morning. Why?"

"One moment. Do you have any plans for tonight?"

"No."

"Want to surprise Mrs Hudson then?" John chuckled.

"It would be my pleasure."


	69. Defective Detective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Uh. I think one or two more chapters? Still can't decide on whether to do a christmas one as the last one in this or the first in the other?
> 
> REMEMBER WHEN I SAID I WANTED TO WRITE A STORY ABOUT MILTON? Well I've come up with an idea but it would only work as a sort of children's book sort of thing with pictures. Not sure If I'll follow though but if I can figure out how to draw cats I might try it.  
> Otherwise, yeah. HOPE YOU ARE STILL ENJOYING THE STORY.

Mrs Hudson had indeed been pleasantly surprised by Sherlock's appearance. She'd cried and fussed over him and John, demanding that they stay for dinner. Which had been a lovely meal in John's humble opinion. But he had had to say farewell to the both of them and return home to his Mary. He'd promised Sherlock he'd visit him as often as he could and would be around in a day or two to help him unpack, but he couldn't shake the look on his friend's face when he was leaving. But he noticed, while they'd waited for her to return, that his friend had been in much better spirits. Like something that had been missing was back again. And he knew what it was. It was John. He had been missing in Sherlock's life and now that he was back, something in Sherlock was beginning to heal.

Sherlock might always be a different person than who he'd used to be and maybe that wouldn't be a bad thing. Forgiving the detective had been the right thing to do. And John stayed true to his word and visited the next day to help his friend.

"What's going to happen with the upstairs bedroom? If you don't mind me asking?"  _Bit early for this question, isn't it?_

"Mrs Hudson suggests making it either a study, so this room becomes cleaner or keep it as a guest bedroom." It was certainly a lot emptier now. Only containing the bed, wardrobe, dresser and one bedside table.

"Both ideas sound promising." John replied, removing a beaker from the box marked SCIENCE.

"Yes."

Silence.

It was going to take time to rebuild their friendship, John knew this. Didn't make it hurt any less when neither knew what to say to the other. Goodness knows Sherlock hated small talk. But it was what they were reduced to today it seemed.

"Where's Milton?"

"With Mrs Hudson. He has learnt that she will spoil him if he cries and begs for attention." John chuckled. Milton really was the perfect cat for Sherlock.

"He's a traitor."

"Oh absolutely."

* * *

A few days later and Sherlock finally had the flat the way he wanted it. The scientific equipment had been repacked and put away for the time being. All his books were back in their shelves or in a pile to be put in a new bookcase. John had suggested putting one in his old room. His clothes were carefully folded away in their drawers, or hung with care in his wardrobe. Everything was where it should be and the flat was pleasantly messy. Organised chaos, just how he liked it. There were a few new additions. A box of cat toys in one corner, that Milton kept removing the same toy from and leaving it on the floor every night. When he was supposed to be sleeping. Mrs Hudson had taken the strange otter picture off his hands and it was now somewhere in her flat. He had the blue blanket from Lestrade folded across the end of his bed.

It was still strange living in 221 and not finding John awake every morning, drinking his tea. Or being poked and nagged until he ate something. There was no one complaining about loud unexplained noises in the night. He was still waiting for his violin to be returned...He was free to conduct any science experiment, within reason, without being told it was unsafe, unnecessary or that they really did need the table without a hole burned through it's centre. Mycroft had replaced it before Mrs Hudson found out. It really had been an accident. And Mrs Hudson came in at all hours. Insisting she was not his housekeeper but disproving this with every action. Be it cleaning, making him tea or doing his laundry. It didn't matter how many times he said it was unnecessary, though the tea was nice.

And it was odd to be back sleeping in his old bed. Or attempting to sleep in any case. The first night there he had to remind himself when he woke up, that he was no longer in his old flat, but in 221b. The new sheets were pale blue and the duvet cover had a navy pattern. Blue seemed to be the theme in his life at the moment. Wasn't that an odd thought? However, it was true. But he would muddle along and eventually, things would became easier. Or thats what he had hoped.

* * *

_This was getting ridiculous!_

He'd broken his third glass in a week. Because his hands would shake, or he'd been triggered and dropped it. This was getting ridiculous. He was reduced to using old and colourful metallic ones borrowed from Mrs Hudson. It was embarrassing enough that he had to ask for them. Now he was forced to avoid anything breakable until he could get this thing under control. Maybe he was going a bit overboard, but he had almost cut his foot the day before due to the broken glass littering the carpet.

Both he and Milton had played 'The Floor Is Lava' until the vacuum cleaner was found.

It was just as well he had not had any more visitors. The last thing he wanted was for people to find out he could only use plastic or metallic cups. Or that he'd been eating takeaway for the past few days because he'd broken the dial on his stove and accidentally exploded the microwave. Both had been accidents. And the kitchen still smelt like burnt pie. Mycroft was getting him a new one soon.

"Oh Sherlock, you've only been here two and a half weeks and it's a wonder the whole flat hasn't gone up in flames."

"I did say I was sorry." Mrs Hudson tutted and waved a hand in front of her nose. "It probably needed replacing anyway. But I think for the time being, if you need something cooked, just let me do it, dear."

"I thought you weren't my housekeeper."

"I'm not. But I do care about you. And I want to stay your landlady. So, until the new microwave arrives and the oven is fixed, I will do you cooking."

"Thank you." She pretended his gratitude didn't matter, but she smiled to herself as she left the room.

Sherlock sighed and threw his cup across the room. His boredom was reaching new levels. His boredom and his patience. His temper had been resurfacing lately, but not at anyone except himself. He was incredibly frustrated with his body and his mind. It no longer functioned as it used to. His body and mind were defective. He was a defective ex-detective. His shoulder twinged although it was well on it's way to healing. And he still kept limping no matter how many times he told himself that it was psychosomatic. But his mind continued to find things it could consider a trigger and force him to either have a flashback or a panic attack. It was ridiculous. There had to be someway to stop them.

But you probably had to...talk to people.

Sherlock shuddered and filed away that thought into the back of his mind. He hadn't properly ventured into his mind palace for several months now. It was in shambles, rooms falling apart and others he feared to look inside. It would need to be rebuilt in areas. But it would have to wait. He wasn't ready. If he would ever be ready...

He collapsed into his chair, trying to ignore the empty one. The empty one that Milton was curled up in. But it was John's chair and he no longer lived here. Part of him wanted to get rid of the chair. So that he wouldn't have to look at it whenever he sat down in his. The other half wanted to put it in his room, winced solved two problems. And then perhaps Milton wouldn't sleep in his bed every night. He had had no problem with it before, but he was prone to writhing and moving about in bed at night. Twice he had accidentally kicked Milton off the bed.

But it probably wouldn't fit though his door.

Ugh.

Sherlock curled up on his chair and rested his head on one of the arms. There had better be something interesting on the tv.


	70. Brother Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DO I DO CHRISTMAS?
> 
> It would make Milton a year old. Dx but he will always be a kitten to me. I so wanna draw him! But animals are hard.
> 
> But should i included christmas?
> 
> Lestrade would come and bby Rupert and Molly and John and Mary and people. People would come. With presents and bad decorating of 221 and Sherlock trying to avoid being social but theres presents and maybe embarrassing mistletoe incidents and and
> 
> christmas.

He hadn't received as many visitors to 221b as he thought he would. Lestrade was too busy with his job and child, John's work had become overloaded and Mycroft was no doubt running the country from his study. At least the first two occasionally sent him a text, to ask him how he was. Lestrade would send photos via his phone, of his child's accomplishments. John would ask him how he was. And he still had not returned his violin.

He still had Mrs Hudson. Who made him come downstairs every night for tea. He would stay some nights and watch a movie with her, falling asleep one of her couches on more than one occasion. She still fussed over him. Even when he tried to project a relaxed and content image, she would still mother him. She could see right through every mask he wore. He was only thankful she had not been present for any of his nightmares, outbursts or flashbacks. Her opinion and view of him would change if she did. And he didn't want that to happen.

Plus she would tell John and he didn't need him to run around, though it would be nice, to make sure he was alright.

But she was out tonight. So it was just him. Him and no dinner. He didn't feel like takeaway or making anything. It was fine.

Food was overrated.

Except for pancakes and strawberry ice-cream. And chips.

* * *

There was a knock at the door.

Three knocks.

Then finally, the sound of a door opening and footsteps slowly making their way up the seventeen steps to 221b. And moments later, Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway, his eyes missing nothing as they scanned the room and his brother. Who was sitting innocently in his armchair with his laptop. He watched Mycroft out of the corner of his eye, who was trying to decide whether to sit on the couch, where Milton had taken up residence, or pull up a chair from the desk. Because John's armchair was gone. Mycroft decided on the latter and removed one of the chairs from the desk and placed it opposite his little brother.

"Hello Mycroft."

"Hello brother mine, how are we today?"

" _We,_  are fine." Sherlock didn't look up from his laptop, preferring to maintain the illusion that he was, in fact, perfectly fine.

"Are we? I see you have removed John's armchair."  _How very telling._

"Yes. Problem?"

"No, not at all. Unless you had a problem with it."

"No. It was just obstructing my view of the kitchen. And I was thinking of placing the tv in that spot."

"Which one is it?"

"...Mycroft why are you here?"  _I'm not playing this game._

Mycroft sighed. The familiar banter had been enjoyable for all it lasted a few minutes. He had only been concerned with his brother's wellbeing and he had every right to worry. The removable of the red armchair spoke volumes. It was either in storage somewhere, or more likely in Sherlock's own room. No doubt it had hurt him to see the empty chair, knowing that it was unlikely John would ever live here again.

"To see how you were. If you were settling in."

"I am fine. And I'm settled in."

"Some how, I don't believe you." Sherlock went back to typing on his laptop and ignoring Mycroft.

"I am fine." It was incredibly hard sometimes to ignore Mycroft.

"It does not matter how many times you say you are, I do not believe you. And you know why I don't."  _Then why ask?!_

Sherlock slammed the laptop shut and left his chair, placing the computer on his desk. He knew why. Mycroft could read it in his face, the broken stove, the absent microwave, the cups and the empty space where a chair had been. It wasn't as if his brother had come to 221 to gloat. He did seem genuinely worried. But what would worry do? How did it help? And what else was Sherlock supposed to do? Pour out his sorrows and anxieties to his older brother?

"Sherlock.."

"What do you want? Really. What do you want from me?" Mycroft opened then closed his mouth, not entirely sure how to reply.

"I want you to be happy. And I can see that you are not."

"Of course I'm not. I'm...defective." He whispered the last word, but new from Mycroft's expression that it had not been missed.  _Oh Sherlock. Is that what you really think?_

"Sherlock Holmes! You are not defective and you will never refer to yourself as such again!"

Sherlock was taken aback. It had been a while since his brother had raised his voice to him like this. He actually sounded angry. As if it had personally hurt him. But this was just Sherlock's own opinion of himself. And it was a correct one. It was not a reflection of Mycroft in any way. It was simply the way he was now, those were the facts. He watched his brother stand and then walk towards him. Sherlock moved to the other side of the desk, pretending as if there was something he was looking for.

"Sherlock. Do you understand?"

"Leave me alone. Please."

"...Sherlock."  _Don't...don't look at me like that, Mycroft._

"Look, I am well, at least just as well as I was back in the other flat. I don't see why you needed to come here. But please, can you leave now?"

Mycroft took a single step towards him, one arm outstretched and then dropped to his side. It wouldn't do to physically comfort his brother. Sherlock wouldn't let him anymore. "Very well. I can see I am unable to get through to you. Which wouldn't be the first time. But Sherlock, you are not defective. And you are not fine. I only want to help you."

"Thank you but I don't need your help. Bye."  _And how would you really know if I was defective or not?_

Mycroft paused for a few moments and then left.

Finally. That had been a short visit. And an unnecessary one.

Perhaps he could go back to doing useless things like you-tubing cat videos. He'd started out in a completely different spot and couldn't work out how he had ended up watching cats push things off shelves..

* * *

The chair had fitted neatly into the corner of his room. He'd moved the lamp and a few other things. But for now the red armchair would remain in his room. It had been quite difficult to get it in, especially without making any loud noises that might pique Mrs Hudson's curiosity. Milton had taken to the chair immediately, as Sherlock had hoped he would. Though it had been Sherlock, not Milton who had slept in it the previous night. Milton had slept on the bed. It was hardly Sherlock's fault that the chair was soft and comfortable. Now that Mycroft was gone, Sherlock settled into the red chair, curling his body up and opening the book that had been laying on it's arm. It was a mystery novel by someone called Agatha. Very easy to deduce but...somewhat enjoyable, if you liked a simple story. It didn't take long for him to slip off into dreamland.

And he never knew that while he slept, Mycroft, who had never really left, had opened his door and removed his book. He placed the blue blanket around his form and tried to make him more comfortable. And then he sat on the bed and thought for a long time. About the past, the present and the future of his little brother. Who he only wanted to help, only wanted the best things for him. And those were things he could not give him. But if his brother would only talk to him, tell him what was wrong, confirm his deductions. Sherlock was nothing if not stubborn.

There was something wrong with Sherlock Holmes that Mycroft needed to remedy.

* * *

Mrs Hudson found them both the following morning. Sherlock's door had still been wide open, the detective still curled up on the chair; his mouth slightly open and his curls were all rumbled. Mycroft lay on the bed, on his side. Still in a three piece suit, his umbrella resting against the side of the mattress. His normally perfect hair was messy as well and one hand was grasping the bed spread tightly. What a sight the two of them were. It would be improper to take a picture. But she did anyway. And then laid the afghan over Mycroft and quietly closed the door.

She hoped Mycroft would stay for awhile, it would do Sherlock a world of good. He may have spent some time with his brother but it was clear they still needed to open up to each other. Sherlock about the things he tried to hide from her and the sadness behind his eyes. And Mycroft who felt so much guilt and still blamed himself. They may be smart, but that didn't mean Martha couldn't see.

Silly boys.


	71. Sleepovers and Thunderstorms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. This feels all over the place but it's taken several days. Also the A key isn't working properly so if you see any A's missing let me know. I have to hit it several times. Uh...
> 
> So I think next chapter will be decorating (time skips mycroft the shit outta there) , chapter after will hopefully be christmas. Not sure about the chapter after that. Holiday ending with Oh God Yes. Or something...
> 
> Though I have a question, if Mycroft would have learned an instrument as a child. What one would it be?
> 
> I think piano. Maybe. Or harp :P

Sherlock was the first to wake up the next morning. After cricking his neck and rubbing his eyes, he noticed that someone sleeping on his bed. Mycroft. How long had he been there? Why had he returned? And for what reason was he asleep on his bed? It was too early for these questions. Yawning, Sherlock stood, wrapping the blanket back around his shoulders and crept out of the room. It was raining outside, wonderful. He all but threw himself onto the couch and rummaged for the tv remote. The days were short and colder. Winter was coming. The room was freezing.

"O-hoo!" Mrs Hudson placed a tray of steaming tea and buttered toast on the coffee table. "Good morning."

Sherlock covered his face with the blanket and groaned. Bad morning.

"I see Mycroft stayed the night so I made enough for the both of you."  _Thanks, but he will leave as soon as he wakes._

"Yes. I don't know why."

"Take the blanket off your face dear, there that's better. He stayed to make sure you were alright."

"I was."

"Whatever you say, Sherlock. I'll be downstairs if you need me."  _Why would I need you?_

The tea did smell nice and there was jam and other toppings to spread onto the toast. She'd even put a small vase of flowers on the tray. What for? For...Mycroft? Unlikely. Well, he better eat up before Mycroft took everything. The tea smelt nice and Sherlock decided raspberry jam would be better than any of the other spreads. He leaned back with the bread in one hand and the tea in the other and watched the rain pitter patter down the window pane. He hoped there would be no thunder.

"Morning brother dear." Mycroft was in the kitchen, rubbing his neck, his suit was all rumbled. Mycroft removed his suit jacket and placed over the side of a chair before sitting down next to Sherlock. Who scooted as far away from him as possible. Wasn't he cold?

"Why are you still here?" Sherlock bit into his toast, savouring the sweet taste of the jam. No wonder John loved the stuff so much.

"It wasn't by choice, I..forgot something and then fell asleep."

"Liar." Mycroft buttered his toast some more and picked up the jar of marmalade.

"I was concerned then. I did not mean to fall asleep."  _You must have been already exhausted then..._

"Why are you still here?"

"Well, it might be because there is going to be a thunderstorm or perhaps I was simply hungry. Although I do believe it is far more likely that it's because of concern for my little brother's wellbeing." _Why did he always have to look so smug?_

"How many times must I tell you I am fine?"

"It doesn't matter how many times. You forget I see as well as you." He nibbled his toast, making a face. "You haven't announced to the world, that you're alive yet. That's a big indicator of how you feel, brother mine."  _Not this again._

"Mycroft...we've talked about this."

"Have we? I believe that if you were to announce you were alive, you may be able to return to your old job. You do still want to be a detective, don't you?" Sherlock tried to ignore the spot of marmalade on the corner of Mycroft's mouth.

"Of course."

"Then what's the problem."  _I thought you said you could see._

"Do we have to do this now?"

"It's pouring rain outside, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere for the time being. Mrs Hudson is downstairs. Yes now is the perfect time." Sherlock finished the last of his toast and pondered the idea of just leaving.

"You know why I don't want to."  _Don't make me spell it out._

"I don't think I do." _Yes you do!_ Sherlock stood, wrapping the blanket around him like a cloak and inspecting the fireplace. It was going to need some kindling. Where did he get that again? It just sort of...happened.

"Liar. You know why. Because of the media, for one thing. But what if I have a flashback in the middle of a crime scene, what if I break down or have a panic attack? What if I can't defend myself or chase after a suspect because I have a..psychosomatic limp and a shoulder wound?"  _John was able too...but I am not John._

Mycroft wiped his mouth and sipped his tea. This hadn't occurred to him. Which was a big lapse in judgment. He had thought Sherlock would either be thrilled to return to his old job, or would slowly settle back in. But for his brother to be afraid to return to detective work, this was something he had not considered. Perhaps there was something else Sherlock could put his mind to, in the meantime. Missing persons, cases involving the living rather than the dead and perhaps smaller cases that Mycroft could find for him.

Or...perhaps a holiday?

A nice relaxing vacation near a beach. Yes, that would be more promising. Though it sounded tantalising to Mycroft as well. But Sherlock would not wish to go on a holiday with his little brother. All he could do was suggest it.

"I'm sure if we take things slowly, we can prevent such things or keep them to a minimum."

"I'm not sure I'm prepared to take that risk." Mycroft walked over to his little brother and placed a hand on his shoulder. He felt his sibling flinch, but kept his hand there.

"Do you want to stay here doing nothing for the rest of your life?"

"Of course not."  _And I do want to be a consulting detective again. But a functioning one._

"Then, we will work on this, so that you are able to return to detective work. If that's what you want. If not, we will keep looking."

Sherlock sighed and returned to the couch. He made it sound so easy.

"Do you ever think there's something wrong with us?" _Or me? Not sure why I'm asking._

"You've asked me that before, brother mine."

"Yes but you never really answered."

"...No. We just have gifts and they come with a price. Caring may be a disadvantage but I never said not to. We may be different, Sherlock. But so is everyone else." That made sense..sort of.

"Now, enough of this. It is still raining. Surely there is something to do here, to pass the time?" Mycroft picked up the tray and headed down to Mrs Hudson's flat to return it.

* * *

"Your move"  _Boring._

"You do know what time of year it is, Sherlock?"

"Of course."

"Your turn. And are you planning on celebrating it? I see Mrs Hudson has left you a box."  _What? Oh, so she has._

"I'm not using those. Too sappy, bright and colourful. Go."

"Planning on getting your own then?"  _No._

"Of course. Not. Who said I was going to decorate?"  _Stupid idea._

"Ah, it sounded as if you intended to. Perhaps, if you were to choose your own decorations, it would be more acceptable. Your move."

"Maybe. Not promising anything. After all, I'm still dead, I can hardly leave the flat." Mycroft sighed.

"If you make a list I'm sure I can-..."

_BUZZ_

"Oh Bugger!"  _Can't handle a broken heart. How very telling._

"Oops."

"It was time to finish anyway."

"Was it?"  _Because you lost.._

"Yes, I was going to order us lunch. And...have a shower first. Perhaps you should get dressed?"

"No. Unless you get me my suits." All he had left were tshirts and casual pants and he just didn't feel as comfortable as he did in his suits.

"I'll think about it. I'm going to have a shower, amuse yourself."

Mycroft left, leaving Sherlock to pack up Operation and put it back in the cupboard, on top of the other precariously stacked board games. There was aloud clap of thunder and the entire stack toppled under his hands. Great. He fixed them and then closed the door. Thunder, the last thing he needed. Good thing Mycroft was in the shower. Another clap sounded and there was a cry of alarm as a small furry body bounded into the room and leaped into his arms. Sherlock cuddled Milton, who was shivering. It gave him something to focus on.

"There, there. It's just a storm. Nothing to be afraid of." Milton loudly disagreed.

Bzz, Bzz.

Hadn't he packed up that game? Oh.. it was his phone.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock! It's me, John."

"Yes."

"Uh, I was just calling to make sure you were alright. Storms always set me off in the beginning. Still cause a bit of grief now but...anyway I just wanted to make sure you're alright."

"I am fine...Mycroft is here." He added as an afterthought.

"Oh! That's good. Great. Well then, I'll leave you alone." Don't..

"Uh...he wants me to decorate the flat."  _Why did I say that? Where did it come from?_

He could hear John chuckle. "Does he? Maybe he should? Mrs Hudson and I did the most of it last time. If you need any help let me know."

"I will." No, really. I will.

"Ok. Bye!"

"Bye, John.."

Did that mean he really did have to decorate the house if he wanted John to visit? Well...if he had too, it would be his style. And the theme would be...dark, with a touch crime.

Call it therapeutic.


	72. Oh Christmas Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I quite enjoyed this chapter. I think I'll do more scenes like the first one in this. So much fun imagining it!
> 
> A few people really enjoyed this quote: "Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly, to be fearful of the night." I really want to include this in the third fic, even if it can't be in the title. Because I have no idea how to make it a title XD.
> 
> Anyway (A key is still broken, so look out for missing ones. I had to hit it several times to get it to show up. But theres nothing wrong with it?)
> 
> ENJOY

_A christmas tree stands in the middle of a room devoid of furniture. There is a fireplace and book shelves against one wall and on another are two windows on either side of the skull of a bison. An empty desk appears with a puff of smoke._

**_No._ **

_He waved his hand._

_The tree moves to rest against the small amount of wall between a kitchen and an open door. A small cabinet was imbedded in the wall but it was of no importance._

_Another wave._

_Bright yellow crime scene tape winds itself around the plastic leaves of the dark tree. Decorations in silver and red fly across the room and attach themselves. Thin red tinsel twists around the christmas tree, going in the opposite direction of the crime scene tape._

_He steps forward, examining his work. **No, not finished.**_

_He clicks his fingers and an antique looking glass star lowers itself slowly downwards until it rests on top of the tall dark tree._

**_Something's missing. Ah! The lights._ **

_Glittering white lights on black cords fly around the the tree, like a double helix made of bright stars._

**_Now, it's perfect._ **

_The rest of the room only requires minor additions. A bit of tinsel there, crime scene tape here. A christmas hat for the bison's skull, antlers for the skull on the mantelpiece. And of course, the stockings._

**_No, that's too many._ **

_Two flew to the opposing ends of each bookcase._

**_Better._ **

_He removed his. Most were new. Two were not. The other flew off as well._

_A hand flick and there was now a miniature christmas tree on the desk. The room probably required more decorations.  
_

* * *

"Sherlock?"

**_But where?_ **

"Sherlock, dear." He shook his head and blinked up at Mrs Hudson. The room was devoid of decorations.

"Yes?"

"You some visitors." Visitors? Now really wasn't the time.

"Thank you."

He'd been trying to use his mind palace again. It had been so long, he was a bit rusty. So he'd started small, using the living room of his flat as a base, he'd planned out his christmas decorating. It had been good practice though would have to be put aside till all the decorations had actually arrived. Mycroft was supposed to be sending a box later that afternoon. The stockings were not set in stone. Mrs Hudson had decided to make stockings for everyone, she was incredibly excited by the idea. And had only succeeded in finishing Molly's. The old stockings that had appeared in his mind palace belonged to him and Mycroft. They'd been an afterthought. His brother had hinted that he might be including them in the box of decorations.

He sat himself down on his chair and pretended to read the newspaper. He didn't intend to actually take on any cases, he merely wanted the mental exercise that the puzzles in the paper provided. Two women stood in front of the door, one looking shy and uncertain, the other with fire in her eyes who strode over to Sherlock and greeted him.

"Hello." She smiled.

"Hello Molly." He nodded towards Irene who was still by the door. "Do sit down."

He watched Molly's eyes flick to the empty space where John's chair had been, before sitting down next to Irene, on the couch.

"How have you been?" Molly asked, as the one most familiar with Sherlock, Irene had no problem with giving her the reins to this conversation. She may have been overseas with him, but he was closer to Miss Hooper.

"Fine." He folded the paper. "...You?"

"Oh, wonderful! I've gone back to my job now that everything's a bit more quiet and Renie's doing some jobs for Mycroft." Good, that would get rid of the more boring ones.

"That's..good for you."

"Where's Milton?"

"Asleep in my room."

"Oh..."

...

"O-hoo!" Mrs Hudson entered the room with a tray filled with cups of tea and plates of biscuits and various snacks. She placed it on the coffee table, smiling at Molly, and removed Sherlock's cup, putting it on the little table next to his chair.

"Thank you Mrs Hudson."

"Oh it's nothing. Just nice to have visitors." She left the room in a cheerful mood.

"Seriously though, Sherlock. Are you ok?"  _Why does everyone keep asking me this question?! What answer are they expecting?_

"I am fine, Molly. You don't need to keep worrying."

"Oh, good!" Sherlock watched Molly attempt more polite conversation. It was clear to him she wished to ask him more questions, but was probably unsure of what his reaction might be.

Her eyes fell on a long, unopened box near the kitchen. "Shopping online?"

"No. Well, maybe someone did. It's...a christmas tree."

"Really?" Finally Irene spoke up, instead of smiling knowingly from behind a tea cup.

"Yes." He drew out the S for as long as necessary. Of course it was a tree. He had just said it was.

"Why haven't you put it up yet?"

"It's only been here for a few hours." 6 to be exact.

"Oh, let's open it now and we can help you!"

"That's...no it's fine, Molly. Really."

"Nonsense."

Irene and Molly stood in unison and made their way into the kitchen. Irene brandished a little, red leather case and removed a sharp implement. She cut way the tape and they opened the box. It was actually quite a nice tree. Medium height, dark moss green leaves...or needles. It almost looked real. Sherlock sighed, rising from his chair and kneeling beside his guests. He threw away the instructions and they removed the three sections of the tree and it's feet. It took about an hour to put it together. Molly spread a round, red rug, that had been provided in the box, in the space left for the tree. Apparently this was to collect loose needles and tinsel glitter.

"It's going to look beautiful, Sherlock." Molly beamed at him. "Have you got any decorations?"

"Mycroft will bring them over at some point."  _And Mrs Hudson wants me to use some of hers..._

"I can't wait to see it finished."

_I'm sure you really can._

* * *

They left another hour later, after Molly's suggestions for decorating the flat, more awkward silences and polite conversation. And then an passionate plea from Molly for him to place go back to detective work, oh and why are you still 'dead'? He found it interesting that Irene remained silent for most of the conversations, seeming to enjoy letting loose Molly onto unsuspecting detectives. It was clear the mortician was a lot more confident in herself, though part of the blame rested on his shoulders. So long as she was happy. Before she'd left, after Irene had kissed him on the cheek and left, he had grasped Molly's hand and thanked her. She hadn't understood at first. It wasn't easy for him to try and convey just how much he was grateful for her help. Hopefully it showed in his face. It must have, because she kissed his forehead and there were tears in her eyes as she left.

That was enough socialising with the outside world.

So of course there had to be a knock at the door. He ignored it.

"Sherlock...where's the bell?" Mrs Hudson gave him a long suffering look. He pointed to the freezer. She sighed.

"You have another visitor, dear."  _Make them go away._

"Hello, brother mine."  _Oh this is much better._

"Ill leave you two alone."

Mycroft have a large cardboard box in his hands. His eyes flicked over to the tree, a small smile appearing on his lips. He placed the box on the desk and pulled out a chair.

"I see we have already started."

"Molly and Irene were very enthusiastic."

"I'm sure they were. Well here is everything you asked for and more."

"More?"

"You left some things to interpretation." Meaning you read what I wrote and made up your own ideas instead.

"...Whatever, fine. Thank you." He waved a hand at the box.

"When do you plan to start?" Why did everyone want to give him their opinions on decorating? He'd already sorted that out!

"Whenever. John offered to help. He's busy for the rest of this week though."

"You could make a head start." Maybe.

"I'll think about it. Don't you have to be somewhere important?"

"I am."

...

"Oh. Do you to...eat.. uh..here? Dinner I mean."  _I'm rubbish at this. What happened? I was getting so good._

"Of course. Shall I play Mother?" _Don't you always?_

"We could...cook together." _It's just a different form of chemistry after all._

Mycroft smiled fondly. "Like old times. Of course. I'll send out for the ingredients."

* * *

There was nothing quite like  _Pasta a la Holmes._


	73. Fire and Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry its actually no spoken words in this one.
> 
> CHRISTMAS DECORATING HOPEFULLY NEXT THEN CHRISTMAS.
> 
> And I'll be touching more on the fire thing too. It's important.
> 
> Um...
> 
> Enjoy?

_Flames covered every inch of the staircase. They climbed up the bannister, ate away at the carpet. Embers covered the floor of the living room, all the furniture was burning. The heat was stifling, the smoke overpowering. He coughed, trying to use his scarf as a makeshift mask. There was someone sitting in his chair, smiling, in a blood red suit, on his head was a crown of flames. He couldn't breath, continuing to cough as he drew closer to the man. The man in flames, the man in his chair, tilts his head from side to side before smiling._

_**Hello, my pet**. He whispers._

_Sherlock can not move. The man runs his fingers down Sherlock's coat, each line creating small bursts of fire. He was going to slowly burn the detective and there was nothing he could do about it. He chokes on the smoke but he can't protect himself from it anymore. All he sees is red and all he smells is smoke and soot and burnt things. The man, the man he kicks him to his knees so that the flames on the carpet and creep up his legs._

_**May your world end in fire**._

_Moriarty places his hand over Sherlock's heart and burns a hole. He can only watch as his heart is burnt out of him._

**_Burn, baby, burn._ **

_The flames crawl up his cheeks and enter his mouth and he screams a pillar of fire._

* * *

Sherlock awoke with a start. He was sweating all over. Fire. He hated fire. But it didn't make sense. He threw off the covers and tried to cool himself down. Water, he needed water. He tiptoed to the shower, hoping his nocturne habit of night terrors had not disturbed her. He didn't care about removing his clothes, he just wanted to get rid of the feeling of being burned alive. He was still breathing in sharp bursts.  _Calm down. Deep breaths._  He stood under the spray of icy water until he felt more relaxed. Until the dream slowly faded away, to be little more than a blurry memory. His clothes were soaked, he let them fall onto the tiled floor, after he'd turned off the shower and fetched himself a towel.

Hoping his landlady wouldn't make a sudden appearance, he headed back to his room clad in only a blue towel. He put on fresh pyjamas and his dressing gown and decided he might as well get up instead of risking another bad dream. He hadn't actually looked at the decorations until that morning. While Mrs Hudson busied herself downstairs making breakfast, took the box off the desk and sat down with it on the couch. Thankfully everything was not a jumbled mess. The lights were neatly wound in their boxes, the tinsel was wound around bits of cardboard and the crime scene tape was still on it's roll. The other decorations were either covered in bubble wrap or in boxes. He placed each item beside him, at the very bottom of the box were two christmas stockings. Deep blue with a Rudolph Applique and the other was green with the image of Father Christmas. The Blue had the name Sherlock embroidered with silver thread, the green had Mycroft in gold. Both were quilted.

He stroked the reindeer with one finger, as he held it in his hands. So many memories. The joy of waking up christmas morning and removing a toy, or for more likely sweets, from the stocking. Playing with the items in bed whilst waiting for his parents to get up. The larger presents would of course sit in front of the tree in bright coloured sacks. Often the stockings would contain new socks or pants, but he never minded, it just meant the more interesting presents were still to come. Sherlock wondered how his brother had even gotten hold of these items. He couldn't put them up in here. Too...personal. Maybe in his bedroom?

"Sherlock?" He quickly popped the stockings back in their box, covering them with the other decorations.

"Yes?"

"Oh are those the decorations! You should come downstairs after breakfast and take a look at mine, we could even put up my decorations today if you like." ...Maybe later.

"Can I help you?"

"I made you some breakfast dear, eat up then come downstairs." Couldn't he just stay here all day? And he wasn't really hungry..

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." She smiled, placed it on the coffee table and left the room.

The food was nice, he ate as much as he could and binned the rest. Deciding he better take up Mrs Hudson on her offer, he took the tray and plates back downstairs.

* * *

She refused to let him help until he was properly dressed, it wasn't his felt Mycroft had still not dropped off his suits. But he did find a pair of old jeans, a blue shirt and one of his hoodies. That seemed to satisfy her. A mew behind him told them that he'd been followed by a new helper. Or hinderer.

The decorations were old and filled with history, Mrs Hudson occasionally remarking upon a bauble or decoration of some kind. The flat was soon covered with tinsel and statues of Father Christmas that sang or danced. The tree itself was at least twenty years old and a tad threadbare. It really needs replacing, she'd say. But she had never gotten round to it. Next year, he'd get her a new one. They needed a hammer to force the feet into the base of the tree. He narrowly misses his thumb. They start with the lights, which take half an hour to untangle, but it's an almost soothing experience. Milton isn't much help though.

A few of the bulbs needed replacing.

Next came silver bells and threads of plastic crystals. Then the baubles. She explained a tradition she'd grown up with that she wished she still continued. Putting people's names on the baubles. Why not do it now? Sherlock had asked. Delighted by the idea, Mrs Hudson left the flat for new baubles and some coloured markers, returning with a back of 12 and two pens, one silver and one gold. Here was a green one for Mycroft and here was a red one for John. A gold for Molly and a silver for Irene. Here was another green for Mary and a blue for Lestrade. Finally there was a red for Mrs Hudson and a blue for Sherlock himself. They even made little silver ones for Rupert and Milton. All that was left were the other decorations.

There was one that was just a head, which Sherlock decided to confiscate for his tree. As well as the creepy looking horse. She didn't mind. She even made name baubles for his tree. Though only in red, blue or silver. His was themed, not all higgledy piggledy. The tree topper was an old angel in a lace dress. And then they turned on the colourful lights. Mrs Hudson clapped her hands and kissed Sherlock on the cheek, before leaving to make them both tea.

That was...actually enjoyable. Now if he could only get John to help him with his christmas decorating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The christmas stuff is inspired by my family's own traditions. Me and my brother have small quilted stockings for small gifts and sacks for big ones and the same is true for our cousins. The name baubles are something we do in my family and on my dad's side. The decoration thats just a head is inspired by one of my nan's christmas decoration, which is just that. The head of an angel. No one knows where the body is and it's just become tradition to still put it on the tree. Theres no creepy horse but there is a creepy clown.
> 
> yEAH..
> 
> At our place the tree usually has a theme, at my nan's, I help her with the decorating and it's just whatever we want to throw on it.


	74. Surprise Decorating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im so sorry this is short! think of it as a filler before christmas. Which I hope will be the next chapter. *crosses fingers* I tried to make this longer but my headache is stopping me. It feels right though.
> 
> Enjoy.

A few days later, quite by chance, John had taken a day off in order to help Sherlock with his christmas decorating. It was by chance, because it was the day Sherlock himself had decided to start. It had been going so well. Place an ornament here, wrap tinsel there. Easy. It was when he started to use the crime scene tape that he ran into some trouble. He tried to put up some of the tape, like bunting, by standing on his desk, only for the roll to fall out of his fingers. And for him to become tangled in the tape whilst trying to stop it from toppling onto the floor.

So of course John found him, half on the desk, half upside own, covered in tape.

With a very sour and almost panicked expression.

John had to use every ounce of his energy not to laugh. And Sherlock's face was getting very red. The old Sherlock would have ranted and raved until John had finished taking a picture and then let him down. He didn't feel he could be that cruel to this Sherlock. Though he did look very angry and could possibly get himself out of this mess if he'd had time before John had arrived.

"Alright, calm down. Let me get some scissors."  _ **You**  calm down._

Five minutes later Sherlock was free, though there was still a bit of tape stuck to his hair.

"Thank you, John." _That was...embarrassing._  "I did not know you were coming."

John scratched his head. "No, well I managed to get time off work, thought I'd surprise you."

"Well you succeeded."  _Well done. There is no prize._

...

"OH! Here, I finally remembered to bring this with me." Sherlock was handed a canvas shopping bag.

Inside was... his violin.  _His_  violin. It had been so long since he'd seen it let alone played it. A string needed replacing and the hair on the bow had seen better days, but it was his and he'd actually missed it. He ran his long fingers across the wood and went to rest the violin on his shoulder, only to stop. He'd wait until John left. He knew he was rusty and would rather practice alone. Sherlock gently placed the instrument on the desk with the bow.

"Thank you, John." He tried to put a bit more effort into this one, his previous one had been lacking gratitude. He wanted his friend to know how much this meant to him but he could see by the look in his face that he already knew.

"Not a problem. I just feel bad that it's taken me this long to return it too you. It's been sitting on my mantlepiece for...quite a while. But I thought it was time to return it to it's owner."  _Quite right..._

"Well...I thank you."  _Again_.

They stood in an awkward silence before John exclaimed at the tree.

"It looks almost real!" Really?  _You don't say. Almost means it obviously isn't, John._

"Yes."

"Do you have decorations?" _No I invited you over and hoped you would supply them. Of course I do._

Sherlock pointed to the box on his couch. He'd removed the stockings and laid them on his bed. The ones from Mrs Hudson were to remain a secret. John approached the box, his eyebrows raising once he saw it's contents. So they weren't the usual kind of decorations? So what? There were traditional baubles, his new named ones, tinsel, the crime scene tape wasn't traditional though. Nor were the skull decorations, the converted test tubes,

John chuckled.

"Shall we get started then?"

* * *

The lights went on first, bright white ones. Not that silly colourful nonsense. Then came the tinsel. John made this his job so Sherlock could empty a plastic bag filled with silver bells and begin to place them on the tree. Next came the baubles, which John liked and decided to do the same for their tree back home.  _Idea stealer._  The test tubes came next, Sherlock was rather proud of making them decorations. He'd considered filling some with coloured cellophane. But liked the almost icicle look they gave the tree. And his other decorations had their own flair such as the bodiless angel.

"Crime scene tape? Are you sure?"

"Of course I am sure."

"Considering what happened when I got here?"

"One minor issue. It will be fine. It is my tree after all."

"Alright." _Don't give me that look._

The tape looked perfect, no matter what John said. It suited the colours on the tree and even added to the over all look, just as he'd hoped. Bright yellow amongst silver and red. Wonderful. There wasn't much left except the tree topper. John was far too short to put that on the tree, Sherlock would do it. Plus it had...sentimental value.

"Tree topper?" He was looking for it but the box was already in Sherlock's hands.

"Here."

He removed the star from its box. It was made with glass mirrors and was very old. Very sturdy too, he could remember dropping it a few times as a child. He stood on his toes and placed it on the top of the tree. There, it was finished. Finally.

"It looks great mate. Now lets turn the lights on."

And it did look great. John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and the detective suddenly felt very peaceful. He didn't know why, but everything felt right with the world. His friend was by his side and did not hate him, he had lovely decorations and was actually participating in christmas for once. It felt good, even if it meant socialising and stepping outside his comfort zone, which was not very big at the moment. John was smiling to himself and retracted his arm, offering to help him put up the rest of the living room's decorations.

Good idea, best not to get emotional.

* * *

"Thank you for coming." It seems he was saying a lot of that today. Thank you's were not easy either.

"It was my pleasure. I'm busy for the rest of the week but as soon as I'm off I can come and visit you again. Or you could come to us one night and have dinner."

"...That would be acceptable."

"It better bloody be. Bye Sherlock."

"See you later, John."

Now he had only to put at the christmas stockings.

But they were a secret.


	75. Happy Christmas Sherlock Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like Christmas will be split into parts again. Sherlock's a bit nervous, don't mind him.
> 
> Again this dinner will be inspired by my extended families own christmas traditions.
> 
> My computer isn't picking up spelling mistakes, so apologies for any typos.
> 
> Enjoy.

It had been John's idea to have the Christmas dinner at 221. He'd first suggested it to Lestrade, who thought it was a marvellous idea. In fact everyone John had spoken too agreed that it would be perfect to have christmas in Baker Street. The last one had just been nibbles really, a proper family christmas dinner at 221b would be wonderful. Plus there was Mrs Hudson's flat just downstairs for that could be used for the cooking and extra chairs, facilities etc. John was rather pleased with himself. Everyone was happy with the idea.

Except for of course, the occupant in 221b Baker Street.

"You mean to say...there would be people? Many people? And I'd have to...talk to people? Or even..." He shuddered. "Mingle?"

"Well yes. It's not as if they are strangers, Sherlock. They're your friends. We've done this before remember? Though not for a proper meal."  _And you were more rude about it as well._

Sherlock thought about this. "I don't have a big enough table." Spotting the flaw in John's plan and not only pointing it out but attempting to poke holes through it.

"That's ok, Lestrade has offered to lend us a few card tables. We can fit a few in here the living room plus the dining table in the kitchen if it's tidied up. There won't be many of us." It seemed like John had given this a lot of thought.

It wasn't that he was opposed to the idea, but he wasn't sure he could handle being in a room full of people, talking and expecting him to talk back. Small talk alone was horrible, but actually talking oh no. He couldn't do that. But if it was held here, he could at least escape to the safety of his room if the need arises. And it probably would. He'd better say yes then, John was counting on him too and it wouldn't do to disappoint John Watson.

"Oh, alright then."

* * *

The day came sooner than Sherlock would have liked. He and Mrs Hudson had set up the tables the night before and cleaned up his kitchen. She'd finally finished all the stockings and they were placed over the fire place and on the corners of the bookcases, just like in Sherlock's mind palace. Sherlock had had most of the day to himself, much to his relief, whilst Mrs Hudson was busying herself downstairs, cooking. He really should be helping, but he really couldn't be bothered. Plus she'd told him he'd be in the way. Instead, he'd showered, played with his hair and lounged around in his pyjamas until it came time to get changed.

Mycroft had been around a few days before with a gift. Not a christmas gift, he'd maintained. But a brotherly one, if such a thing existed. It was three new suits. Three wasn't really enough but they would do for now. They were the same style as his old ones and came with three new shirts as well. He chose a pale red one because it was christmas afterall. He even wore christmas socks. Mrs Hudson had given them to him that morning. Bright red with candy canes.

"Oh look at you. You look wonderful dear." Just like your old self, she added in her head. She was wearing a dark green pattered dress with matching earrings and an apron over everything.

"...Thank you Mrs Hudson." He responded quietly, turning to see Milton following him, a red bow around his neck. He didn't seem to enjoy the bow, but he received plenty of pats and affection from Mrs Hudson, so he had not yet ripped it off.

"I'll be up shortly with two tablecloths and then I'd like you to set the table." Set the table...he hadn't done that in years.

The cloths were both red and large enough to spread over a few tables. Sherlock's chair had been moved to make way for the tables and the living room and kitchen had been made baby proofed, not that it mattered yet, and tidied. Sherlock was pleased none of the chairs were positioned at the head of the table, in case he had been expected to sit there. The plates were all set out with the cutlery and glasses. Mrs Hudson had placed a few bottles of soft drink and a jug full of cold water in the centre of the tables as well. So people didn't have to go so far for their drinks, as the food was to be placed on the spare card table. There was salads, chicken and turkey, and eggs and sauces. Everything else was to be brought by the visitors.

There was nothing to do now but wait.

* * *

When the doorbell rang, Mrs Hudson had replaced it after Sherlock had frozen it for a second time, Sherlock jumped. People were here. People were going to come inside and bother him and expect him to talk. It was alright with one person, even two, but several people, ugh. No thanks.

"Would you get that dear?" _If I must._  Milton had already bolted down the stairs like an excited puppy, but Milton didn't have opposable thumbs and therefore couldn't open a door. Not for lack of trying though.

Sherlock adjusted his suit and checked his appearance in the mirror above the fireplace before headed down to the front door. It was John and Mary, both dressed finely, with a handful of presents and faces filled with a smile. John attempted to give Sherlock a one armed hug but it was a little difficult with his other hand filled with presents.

"Upstairs?"

"Of course." Milton followed them while Sherlock went through Mrs Hudson's open door to look for her.

"Everything alright darling?"

"John and Mary are here."

"Oh how wonderful, tell them I'll be up soon will you?..Is everything alright?"

"What? Yes. Everything is fine."

"It's alright to be nervous dear. Things haven't been easy for any of us but I suspect it's been a lot harder on you. If it helps, none of us expect you to be to social if you don't want to. I know you enjoy your own solitude sometimes." Some how it was a relief to know she'd noticed. It was not as if these people were strangers and most of them knew the things he'd been through, he wished they didn't. So to know he even had permission to escape if he felt like it, and would not be judged was most definitely a relief.

"...Yes I...will go and tell John and Mary now."  _Silly boy._

* * *

"The place looks great, Sherlock!" Molly and Irene had now arrived, Irene in black and Molly in red and white.  _Of course it looks great, what did you expect?_

"...Thank you." Mary and John were sitting on the couch, Irene and Molly had claimed two chairs from the tables. As the host, Sherlock had to stand.

Who was left? Mycroft was not coming. He'd declined but said he might come by after everyone had left. It was stubbornness and cowardice plain and simple. So it had to be Lestrade, Anna and little Rupert. No one else knew he was still alive. But he couldn't think of any other people that would be invited in any case. Everyone was sipping drinks and talking, Mrs Hudson was downstairs checking on the desserts. Sherlock paced up and down the stairs, still waiting. He wished things were already over and done with. But there was still dinner and dessert and apparently presents judging by the number that now lay under his christmas tree.

At least the decorations had been so far well received. And the stockings adored. Though that had nothing to do with him.

The doorbell rang.

Now the party will finally begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY THE SEXY SUITS ARE BACK.
> 
> And while you wait for the second part, why not suggest gift ideas for our guests to give each other? I have a few ideas, but more are welcome! I'll probably even name those who suggestions I choose at the end if you like!


	76. Presents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't flowing right for me but if I don't post it now, you'll have to wait even longer.
> 
> So... enjoy I hope.
> 
> I hope it finishes soon...
> 
> (idk how to finish it)

Everyone agreed, the food was magnificent. Except Sherlock, of course. There were drinks, there were Christmas Crackers filled with stupid jokes, silly toys and colourful paper hats. And the puzzle game he won was ridiculously easy. Sherlock's paper crown was blue and barely fitted over his dark curls. Then came dessert in all it's rich, delicious glory. Jellies in two different flavours, a large trifle, John and Mary had brought some tiramsu. There was of course, runny christmas pudding. Sherlock raided Mrs Hudson's fridge for the strawberry icecream she had begun to stock after he returned to 221b. What a remarkable coincidence that he liked that flavour.

It was almost as if she knew.

Milton was having the time of his little, furry life. So many smells to enjoy, so many people to rub and beg for food from. So much food. Eventually he was banished downstairs for disturbing the peace. Little Rupert was on his best behaviour, though he did little but eat and sleep. They'd placed a small cot for him in the upstairs bedroom. So he had a more..quiet environment as some of the adults were beginning to be a little tipsy and a bit loud.

Sherlock was also on  _his_  best behaviour. Trying to be the perfect host while at the same time, attempting to be as unsociable as possible. Which proved to be rather easy. So long as he kept himself busy. Whether that meant helping Mrs Hudson downstairs, dishing out food for people, refreshing their drinks. It didn't matter. So long as he didn't have to talk to anyone beyond small talk, or be in one spot for too long.

Of course, come present time, this was no longer an option. Tables were folded away, snacks and drinks left on the kitchen counter. Then everyone crowded around the christmas tree. Some in chairs and some on the floor. John and Mary were cuddling in one corner, Lestrade and Anna in another. In fact everyone was a couple. Except Sherlock. He was the only single, the loner.

Unless you counted Mrs Hudson.

Which he didn't.

* * *

Straws were drawn on who would pass around the gifts, which were all in large pile around the tree. Sherlock could deduce just which presents had been wrapped by which person. The red and white stripped gifts were from John and Mary, lovingly tied with gold ribbon. The plain brown paper presents with string wrapped in bows, were from Irene and Molly. The green ones patterned with holly were from Anna and Lestrade. The ones featuring Father Christmas were from Mrs Hudson. Which just left his, in plain black wrapping paper. (The patterned ones offered to him had been sickening).

Lestrade drew the short straw.

Sherlock almost smirked from his little corner of the room, as far away as the tree as possible. This meant of course that Lestrade would have to don Father Christmas's outfit for the duration of the gift giving. Except the beard. Milton had all but destroyed that.

The first gift went to Molly. Wrapped in green, it was from Anna and Lestrade. It was small, an itunes card and tickets to a play she'd been desperate to see before it finished. Plus the obligatory card. She seemed delighted of course.

"Thank you so much! Just what I wanted.'

The next gift was to John from Mrs Hudson. Sherlock knew what this one was. One of the stockings, John's was red, quilted and with a snowman. His name was embroidered in the corner. Underneath it was a new jumper. Red with snowflakes around the collar. How jolly. John of course immediately stood and hugged his former land-lady.

"It was no trouble, John!" It really was a rather ugly jumper.

The next two gifts went to Irene and Mrs Hudson. Then Lestrade picked one that was for himself and Anna. Was that even allowed? Shouldn't he wait until the end? She opened it to find a few little things for Rupert that were not little at all and a brand new tablet which had been a collaborative effort from most of the guests.

Except Sherlock.

"Wow, thanks everyone." Lestrade smiled.  _Everyone except me_ , thought Sherlock.

The next gift, however  _was_  for him. Judging by the paper it was for him. He was quite surprised to find that the Inspector had taken the time to buy him a gift. The card had some silly, romantic version of christmas. He placed it to the side of him and gently ripped apart the paper. Inside was an old hard cover book. About bees. Interesting. He opened up the cover to reveal a little message from Lestrade and a gift card. It was enough to buy at least two other books. Sherlock supposed he was a hard person to buy a gift for.

But the book did look interesting...

"..Um, thank you." Greg seemed delighted and said it was nothing.

Which it wasn't.

Seemingly pleased, the Inspector continued on with his job, whilst Sherlock read the first few paragraphs of his new book.

* * *

He barely paid attention to the rest of the gifts until another came his way, this time from John. Or rather two gifts it seemed. There was a small card with simply a christmas tree on the front. Inside the first gif was a tall mug covered in illustrations of the solar system plus the gravity of each planet. Even the inside at colourful diagrams. He thanked John, who merely smiled. Possibly it had not been his choice, but Mary's. The second gift was another book, this one however was about star-gazing. It looked as if it would prove most useful and his hands were already itching to turn its pages and discover its secrets.

"Thank you, John...and Mary."

"Glad you like them, Sherlock." John seemed pleased. So he should be.

The following gifts went to Mrs Hudson and then to John and Mary. John had received one of the gifts Sherlock had chosen. Three large, leather-bound and empty books. Or journals. Journals was probably a more accurate description. Plus a very nice and rather expensive pen. John was a hard man to buy for, particularly if one hadn't seen him in quite some time and then did, and they hated you. But then all was forgiven but one still had spent barely enough time with him to figure out the perfect christmas present.

"Wow, these are great, Sherlock!" Good. They were encouragement for the doctor to continue his writing.

"You're welcome." John looked as if he was about to stand and hug Sherlock, but changed his mind at the last-minute.

Probably a good idea. Bit embarrassing.

* * *

The rest of the stockings from Mrs Hudson were eventually unwrapped by everyone and placed over the fireplace. And then there was much drinking and happy conversation. All the gifts had finally been given. Lestrade and Anna had a small pile of baby toys and clothes beside them plus a few things for themselves. John and Mary had a small pile of presents, mostly homewares, books or dvds. Irene and Molly both shared in tickets, jewellery and fashionable clothes. Mrs Hudson also received mostly homeware items and gift cards.

Sherlock received a gift from all of them that he had not seen coming. An IOU. He was to go on a holiday, where-ever he wished for ...well the maximum was a month. They would pay for his travel, accommodation and anything he needed to buy before he left. Plus spending money on souvenirs. Mycroft it appeared, had chipped into this as well. Which was why they could afford such a lavish present. He hadn't been able to say more than thank you. They all agreed that he badly needed a holiday. He was too thin, too pale. Many reasons were given. Which was a tad insulting.

But where would he go? He didn't really need to relax. It would be incredibly boring. But not using this gift...would be insulting to his friends.

Oh, he'd find a use for it somehow.

* * *

The rest of the night continued, with Sherlock leaving at odd intervals to clear away dirty dishes, refresh drinks or bring out plates and bowls of nibbles. And, when they were all finally distracted, his slipped away into his room and lay on his bed. Emotionally exhausted. That was enough for one night. He hadn't even played his violin yet. And they were sure to ask. Hopefully they wouldn't, he was a bit out of practice.

He decided to just lay there on his bed for awhile and recharge. They wouldn't even notice he was gone.


	77. Sleepy Christmases

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is painfully short. And has made me tired. Hopefully the next shall be a little longer, bring in Mycroft and hmmm decided how to finish this fic.
> 
> Despite it's length i hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Yawns.

An hour.

He'd been asleep for over an hour. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, surely he hadn't been  _that_  tired. Sherlock rubbed his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. He could hear the faint chatter of his guests, only a few rooms away. The last thing he remembered was lying on his bed and just wanting a little peace and quite, on his own. And then he'd woken up. How embarrassing. It was a good thing no one knew. He wondered if it was worth getting up and rejoining the others. But the bed was so very comfortable and he didn't want to interrupt their merriment. He was happy enough to simply listen to them through the walls.

Sherlock removed the blanket he didn't remember curling up under, and swung his legs across the edge of the bed. He shrugged off his suit jacket and removed one of the dressing gowns from his wardrobe. He wrapped it around his form and sat back down on his bed. Wasn't there a book he'd been reading somewhere? Or had he left it in the bathroom? Fortunately he discovered it under his bed, it must have fallen off his bedside table. He rested his head against the soft pillows and began to read.

* * *

Twenty minutes later there was a knock at the door.

_Did they want something? Or lose something?_

"Come in." He replied, putting the book beside him and tying up his dressing gown.

It was John. Of course, it always was John.

The doctor closed the door behind him and smiled. But Sherlock noted, his eyes were worried.

"John."

"Sherlock. How are you?"

"I'm fine."  _Why would you think otherwise?_

"Are you sure? I was in here about an hour ago and you were fast asleep." Oh, so it was John who had spread the blanket across him.

"I did not mean too. There is no reason to be concerned." John smiled but shook his head as if he disagreed. He sat down on the bed next to his friend.

"You were tired. There's nothing wrong with that. Everyone knows how busy you've been. We were worried when you disappeared but we don't blame you for wanting to get away for awhile. Frankly I'm surprised at how long you lasted."

Sherlock did not really know what to say to all that. His friends had not only noticed his absence and been worried about it. But had also looked for him. And they understood his need to be by himself. They didn't judge him for it. He sighed, thinking he didn't deserve friends like these, not after he lied to most of them, and his actions caused others harm. He had  _been_  tired, the past few days he  _had_  been very busy. He also had not had that much sleep either.

"I am alright now, though."  _I just hadn't decided whether to join you all yet. And this book is actually quite interesting._

"I can see that." John chuckled. "Do you want to come back or would you prefer to stay here?"

* * *

He opted for following John out of the room, pleased that his guests did not make it a big deal. A few of the vacated the sofa so he could curl up at one end of it with his book. They continued chatting to each other, and laughing at ridiculous puns. They talked about people Sherlock did not know and those he knew only by name. At some point a cup of hot chocolate, with two large marshmallows, appeared by his side. In his new mug to. He didn't often drink hot chocolate, but this time it went down smooth and made him feel warm and happy.

The socialising went well into the evening, everyone eventually decided to stay the night. John still had a few clothes tucked upstairs, but left that room to Lestrade and Anna, seeing as little Rupert was still fast asleep. Both Sherlock and Mrs Hudson had foreseen this eventuality and had ready a few mattresses and fold out beds. The small group left after Greg and his wife said their goodnights, cleaned up some of the mess made and pushed all the chairs into the kitchen, piling them on top of another.

Irene and Molly took a fold out bed each and Mary and John shared a double-bed sized mattress. As they prepared themselves for bed, some stripping to their underwear or borrowing an item of clothing from Mrs Hudson, Sherlock quietly slipped away again, this time, feeling properly tired. Before he reached his room he felt a hand on his shoulder. John, clad in his old pyjamas, looked at him, his eyes proud. Slightly tipsy, he gave his friend a quick, but tight hug and whispered good night.

"Good night John." He replied. And then almost as an afterthought he added "Merry Christmas."

He closed his bedroom door, changed into his pyjamas and went to bed.


	78. Goodbyes Are Sad Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. Hopefully only two chapters left. Im not sure whether to put the third story on a hiatus after this and focus on my other two stories for a bit, or write up Milton's little one. Though I wish I could make that into a little picture book. I don't want this to be longer than the first, and it almost is! Argh.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you are still enjoying the story, and hopefully it will be over soon.
> 
> ENJOY

The morning came swiftly. A smell of freshly made toast and coffee wafted through the air. Grumbling guests awoke to the smell and stumbled into the kitchen. The only sounds to be heard was the early morning birds, the kettle boiling, the saucepan sizzling and someone yawning. Sherlock blindly ventured into the kitchen, flopped into a chair and rested his head against the table, his arms wrapping around his head to form some semblance to darkness. He'd barely slept the previous night and as such, was soon fast asleep. Even the sound of plates hitting the table was not enough to rouse him. Fortunately most of the other guests were in the same position.

The table was soon filled with a plates filled with fresh toast, pancakes, scrambled eggs and two boxes of cereal. Various spreads were available and drinks, but so far only Mrs Hudson and Molly had actually begun eating. John was half asleep, his head resting against Mary's shoulder. Mary had an elbow on the table, and was using it to prop herself up. Irene was sleepily nuzzling Molly, Anna was in the upstairs bedroom feeding Rupert and Lestrade was slowly walking behind Sherlock, about to give him a shock.

"Sherlock, breakfast!"

"I didn't do it!" The young man's head lifted up with such speed it was a wonder he didn't hit it on the back of the chair.

"Funny that those are the first words out of your mouth, sunshine. Come on, time to eat." He ruffled the detective's hair and searched for an empty chair.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and slowly bent his head forwards and until he was again, resting it against the table. Silly bugger. He needs to eat. Why is it like pulling teeth with him? He doesn't have the excuse of a case now, though he probably ate a lot of rich food last night. Lestrade had been bloody proud of the lad, though of course worried when he disappeared. Greg considered slamming his fist against the table to wake him up again, but Sherlock was not the only one asleep in his seat. John however was making progress, one wobbly hand searching for a cup of tea, while the other wiped the sleep grit from his eyes.

"Morning, soldier."

"Hmnn. Tea."

"Here you go."

How could Greg be so awake? It's unholy, John grumbled to himself. The man had left earlier to go to bed, that must be it. But he has a baby. John shook his head rather than entertain anymore thoughts until he had his morning tea. A plate of pancakes was placed in front of the dozing detective, the smell drifted into his nose, which was still pressed against the wood of the table, and Sherlock began to stir.

"Come on, grumpy. Eat up."

Barely lifting his head, he reached forward and drew the plate closer, his sleepy eyes searching for his favourite spread. Someone, most likely Lestrade, poured in a cup of fresh tea. Sherlock obeyed the earlier command eventually, pouring more sugar and lemon juice onto his breakfast than was necessarily. And he wasn't the only other one finally waking up. Almost everyone else had begun to yawn and eat. Even Anna, who was now seated on the couch with a plate on her lap, whilst Rupert was lying on a brightly coloured activity mat, with a large mobile with equally bright and cheery animals. The infant was gurgling happily, whilst Milton watched him curiously. He probably wished to play with the mobile himself, but had found the baby himself a bit more interesting.

The rest of the morning disappeared as quickly as it had begun. His guests slowly began to leave. They had to see family and friends, some for lunch, some for dinner, others for both. Lestrade and Anna were the first to leave. They had the most to take with them, so they started early and left early. They thanked everyone, Sherlock and Mrs Hudson most of all. Martha brushed aside their thanks, though clearly pleased.

Sherlock was still quite tired, managing only to mumble. "You're welcome."

"It was brilliant, mate. Well done." There was another hair ruffle from Greg and a kiss from Anna. Rupert simply stared at the detective and then blew a raspberry.

"Rude."

Greg chuckled as they left. A chorus of goodbyes following them down the staircase.

* * *

Irene and Molly were the next to go, both had family to visit. Sherlock was surprised, though perhaps he had deleted this information, or they had never divulged it. Then, surprisingly, Mrs Hudson was next. She had a day and a half planned to visit her family, and nieces and nephews. Sherlock wondered, though not for the first time, if she ever regretted not settling down and having children. But then again, it hadn't gone so well the last time. She, John and Mary, with Sherlock eventually following in tow, cleaned up the kitchen. Mary then left to help Mrs Hudson pack, while John left to pack his own things. The detective, having no need to pack, lounged on the couch and dangled a discarded red ribbon over Milton's head. The cat pulled himself up on his hind legs and attempted to wrench the ribbon from Sherlock's grasp.

"Sherlock, dear? It's almost ten, time for me to pop off. Will you be alright on your own?"

"Of course I will be alright." He tried to sound, and look, insulted but already deduced that Mrs Hudson was not convinced.

She pinched his cheek and kissed it. "Stay out of trouble, young man." She said her goodbyes to John and Mary, and was gone.

There was silence, but only for a moment, before John coughed and hmmned. His and Mary's luggage were sitting at their feet. Of course, they had people to see as well. It was foolish to think they would still a while longer. Mary gave him a quick hug, her hands holding each side of his face, searching for something. She frowned slighty as she pulled away, kissing his cheek before she did so. John looked as if he was about to settle for a hand shake, but instead decided to hug him as well. Where Mary's was gentle, John's was rough, ending with a pat on the back.

"I'll wait for you downstairs, John."

"Alright."

"Goodbye Sherlock."

"Goodbye Mary."

John shuffled his feet and picked up his bag. "I'm real proud of you mate. You sure you'll be alright?"  _Why does everyone think I won't be alright? I've survived on my own for years!_

"I will be fine, John. Go, enjoy yourself."

 _I doubt it_ , John said to himself. His friend didn't look too well. Had he managed any sleep at all last night? Hopefully, it was simply because he had been so busy helping to get things ready for the christmas party. And not something serious. John chuckled to himself and picked up bags. "Ill come over when we get back, ok Sherlock?"

"Very well. See you soon, John."

"Bye Sherlock."

And then he too was gone.

Sherlock fell backwards onto the couch and stayed there. Milton leaped up onto his chest and started to wash himself, reminding the detective that he was still in his pyjamas and dressing gown. Oh well, not that it mattered. He was the only one here. Everyone else was off...having christmas. Well, a second one. Good luck to them. One was enough for him. Milton 'mrted' and curled up in a furry ball.  _Good idea._ He was just getting comfortable when he heard the front door open. _Had John forgotten something? No...those were not his footsteps. Those were..._

"How fared the party, brother mine?"

_Mycroft's._


	79. Merry Christmas, Dear Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this will be the last chapter. I won't do another chapter as an author's note this time. I'm not set on the ending, but the thing crashed and I dont remember how it ended before. This will do. It's not a Moffat Hook like the other but I didn't want to end it on such a cliffhanger.
> 
> Btw if anyone is interested in betaing this and the first one, or different people do both, I'd be very happy.
> 
> Thanks
> 
> I hope you still enjoy it.

"Hello Mycroft."

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"Bit late for that, don't you think?" Sherlock deposited Milton on the floor and sat up, adjusting his dressing gown. His brother was still standing in the doorway, as if he was admiring the christmas tree.

"Do come in." Sherlock drawled, standing up to put on another batch of fresh tea. Mycroft was being extra polite today, which meant extra difficult.

"Thank you."

Mycroft pulled out a desk chair and sat down. The desk still had a few tea stains from the night before where someone had accidentally knocked over their cup. Even though most of the flat had been tidied and cleaned up, Mycroft could still find signs that indicated the guests had indeed been enjoying themselves. The question was though, had Sherlock? Mycroft accepted his cup and placed it on a coaster that looked as if it had never been used for it's original purpose. Sherlock stood by the desk for a moment, something there catching his eye and then sat down in his arm chair.

"So, how fared the party?"

"It went well. Everyone...enjoyed themselves."

"Did you?"

"Of course." _For the most part._

"Good, good. I'm glad. Actually christmas is the reason I am here." _Oh really? I am aghast._

"Oh?"

"Yes. Here, little christmas gift." Sherlock sighed as he was handed a parcel.

It was soft, in plain blue paper, tied with a darker blue ribbon. Sherlock pulled one end, the ribbon slowly unravelling until it was a silky pool in his lap. He unwrapped it with care, discovering a new dressing gown in pale caramel, though camel coloured would be a more accurate description, it's ties finished in dark chocolate tassels. It looked very comfortable. His favourite blue one had developed a whole in one pocket, which he'd blamed Milton for. He set the dressing gown aside, discovering two pairs of socks beneath it and large manilla envelope. One pair of socks were patterned in deep red with lighter red and white flecks. They looked expensive and of the finest wool available. The other pair was blue with a pattern of little bees, clearly cheaper, but nonetheless...aesthetically pleasing.

The envelope was opened to reveal some old violin music. Not pieces he'd played before but most he had heard of. There was also a small pile of blank music paper. He could deduce from this that Mycroft not only knew he'd not been playing recently, but wanted him to continue now that he was home and had his violin back. It had been awhile since he'd played, putting off due to a tremble in his hand making playing extremely frustrating, because there was that and previous injuries as well. And Mycroft knew that, though the violin was never is instrument of choice.

No, as a child it was the piano and as a young adult it had been the cello. He doubted he still played either regularly. He was not the most musical of people.

"Thank you, Mycroft." He tried to put some feeling into those words. Yet again another christmas had come and gone and he had not brought a gift for his brother. This had never bothered him before, only in recent years. Had it really been a year since that last christmas? It seemed hard to believe.

"You're welcome of course."

"I don't have anything to give you."

"You never do."  _But I do not need anything, only your recovery, brother mine._

Sherlock frowned and finished the last few drops of tea, standing to place it on the end table. His gifts were piled high on his desk chair, books, dvds, one christmas stocking, a new scarf. Too many things. He picked up the plain white envelope and opened it, staring at the check inside. Where could he go? And should he? Somewhere warm? Somewhere cold? Alien and exotic or closer to home? He'd travelled a lot during his time away, never stopping long enough to relax except for one time. And even then he was learning, studying. Not truly relaxing.

"Any ideas?" Of course he would know what was in the envelope.

"No."

"You should go, you need a vacation badly, dear brother. You need fresh air in your lungs and the sun on your skin. You're as pale as a sheet."

"I am not."

"Near enough. If you like I can investigate and come up with a few ideas for you. Accommodation and sightseeing as well. You may like to visit more than one location."  _You've clearly thought about this more than I._

"If you like."

"I do. I think it would help, it would do wonders." Sherlock put the envelope down, moving closer towards the window to look outside. The sky was grey, the few people outside wore layers.  _I don't think anything will help for a long time._

"I can stay, if you like. Unless you had plans of your own." Sherlock resisted the urge to laugh, it would have only sounded hollow.

"No, I have no plans."

"Wonderful, I'm sure we can find something to pass the time, I see you have some movies and...tv shows. Or we can play more...board games. Even cards." It told him something about his brother that he was willing to stay. Not worry, though he was sure some of that would always exist within his brother. But that his sibling was also bored and though he'd never admit it, lonely.

"I have a few new ones, John left them downstairs."

"Perfect. Unless you'd rather a film?"

Sherlock continued to stare out the window, the figures were hurrying now, snow was beginning to fall. Not a common occurence here. But a beautiful one. Each snowflake was different but unique in it's own way. Soon the road and sidewalk would be white with snow. The window was cold, not quite as cold as ice yet. He wouldn't freeze his nose to the glass if he rested his face against it to watch the sky open up and scatter the snow to the winds. There would be delicate designs on the window eventually, Jack Frost was an intricate artist.

"Brother?"

"You decide Mycroft. You seem more desperate to escape the boredom." Mycroft sighed and grumbled, getting out of his chair and searching through the messy pile of games and books.

Sherlock smiled, turning back to the window. Somewhere warm and quiet was never somewhere he thought he'd stay for more than awhile. And only for a case. But it might be a relief to be somewhere that held no bad memories, that let him relax without people worrying over his mental state. To think about things, important things. And maybe when he came back he could return to work. Maybe he would be ready then.

One could only hope.

"Stop moping and help me choose."  _No._

"No Milton, I did not mean you."

A small, sad smile grace the detective's face as he finally teared himself away from the cold window to help his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally over. I'm so sorry it's taken this long! It was only ever meant to be a 10 chapter post reichenbach fic. And it both fics are plus 80 chapters. Idk if the third one will be. Theres still many issues with season 3 that I have to work this fic around. I also don't know when it will start. I was hoping to work on my other two current fics for a bit. There's Cold Body Warm Heart and A Study In Impossible Things. Both are AU's.
> 
> Cold Body Warm Heart, if you haven't taken a look, is a Warm Bodies inspired Zombielock fic in first person. Most characters get their POV written at one point or another. And there are a lot of characters. It's more light hearted than the Stars Series, which is what I call this fic and it's predecessor in my head. Though it has it's angsty moments. It's also a long fic and not near the end yet. If you are wanting something of mine to read in the mean time theres that.
> 
> The other fic is new and only 9 chapters so far. It's a fantasy/sci-fi AU called A Study In Impossible Things. It's the first fic that is deliberately written to be long but so far I've had trouble. All my ideas are for later chapters XD. But I do hope it will become as popular as the Stars Series and CBWH.
> 
> I've loved all your reviews and PM's, I hope you continue to enjoy my stories and when the third story starts I hope you will be just as excited as me to see what will happen to our characters this time.
> 
> I haven't decided yet where Sherlock will take his vacation! If you have any ideas please let me know. Likewise for the third story. Either by PM or review.
> 
> I just wanted to say thank you. You're all wonderful and IDK if I would have continued writing this if not for all of you.
> 
> So...thanks.
> 
> See you in the sequel!


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